


Swim Until You Can't See Land

by Sylvesterelle



Series: Float Until You Learn to Swim [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Derek Hale, But only a lil angst tbh, Catharsis up the yang, Derek gets the therapy he so desperately deserves, Derek inexplicably owns a rabbit, Domestic Fluff, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hale Family Feels, I just want them to be happy okay, M/M, Mates, Post-Canon Fix-It, Road Trips, Spark Stiles Stilinski, There is also sex, Werewolf Bonds, and great communication, aww yeah, is that a kink?, sex n' feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10554706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvesterelle/pseuds/Sylvesterelle
Summary: In which Stiles and Derek work out their issues through the power of love (+ milkshakes, museums, and homemade meals pinch-hitting as romantic declarations).Sequel to Float Until You Learn to Swim.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted as a second chapter in Float Until You Learn to Swim, but I realized it made more sense as a sequel, so here we are! With a shiny new title taken from the song by Frightened Rabbit.
> 
> This focuses a bit more on Derek and his history, and is more or less 24k of wildly indulgent feelings. I’m a sappy, melodramatic motherfucker at heart, so expect an imperial shit tonne of fluff and histrionic use of metaphor in the name of love. And a lil sex. But mostly love. 
> 
> Ok alrighty pals enjoy xx

And this is the room  
one afternoon I knew I could love you  
and from above you how I sank into your soul  
into that secret place where no one dares to go.

Neutral Milk Hotel, “King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1”

Derek never meant to end up in D.C. Had never even been, before he moved. It was just something that happened, that he decided not to fight, for the first time in his life.

He spent those first few months after leaving on the road, going from sight to sight with Cora. Trying to relearn how to be a big brother, remember how to be something other than a soldier. They didn’t say much, in the beginning. The car was mostly quiet, just a gentle hum of the tires on the road and the rush of the breeze through an open window.  Occasionally, Cora would look up from her phone, scrolling through Pinterest lists of road-trip recommendations to suggest a destination. Derek would grunt his assent and enter it in the GPS, driving until the sun set.

Those first few nights, they stayed in cheap motels off the highway. Neither of them complained when they checked into their sixth such motel, dropping their bags on the discolored carpet and politely ignoring the suspicious smells hiding behind a thick layer of Clorox and vinegar.

They didn’t grumble about the trickle of the shower when they took their turns rinsing off the grime of the road, leaving the highly perfumed soaps wrapped and untouched on the counter before sliding into their beds.

Didn’t whine even as they both tossed and turned, skin prickling at the rough sheets and ears assaulted by the sound of cars on the highway and shitty porn from the neighboring room’s TV.

And neither of them spoke a word when Derek sighed and looked over at Cora, saw her looking back with bags under her eyes and mouth set in a grim line.

By silent agreement, they got back up and grabbed their things, leaving their key in front of the sleeping front desk clerk and getting back on the highway. At 5 am, light just barely creeping up in the east, Derek pulled into a chrome Denny’s and gently woke Cora from where she’d fallen asleep curled in the passenger seat. They sat in one of the red vinyl corner booths by a window, drinking slightly burned coffee and watching as stars winked out their lights and the sky turned red with the morning.  

Derek smiled when Cora ordered blueberry pancakes, remembering how she would beg their parents to make them every Sunday morning. Derek had preferred the cinnamon French toast his uncle made when he was in an indulgent mood, but hadn’t eaten it in years. Laura had tried her best, rattling around their tiny kitchen in New York early on the weekends, but never managed to get it quite right.

After a while, they just stopped trying. Came up with their own recipes, instead.

Cora snorted when Derek ordered a Mediterranean egg white omelet.

“You’re such a cliché.” She said, something like fondness softening her tone.

Derek narrowed his eyes before turning back to the waitress. “...And a vanilla milkshake. With extra whipped cream.”

Cora smirked, accepting the challenge. “I’ll have one too, please – double fudge with caramel syrup. And sprinkles.”

The middle-aged waitress didn’t even blink, just wrote it down and trudged back towards the kitchen.

Cora turned back to Derek, mischief playing at the corners of her mouth. “’Betcha I can drink mine faster.”

He smiled, accepting the outreach for what was, and, when the waitress returned with their drinks, raised a single expectant eyebrow.

Cora beamed and waited until they were both poised over their straws before raising three fingers, dropping them one by one.

On her signal, they both attacked their drinks, displaying a ferocity normally reserved for lions taking down prey or otherwise reasonable adults during Girl Scout Cookie season.

In the carnage that followed, there was no clear winner. An argument could be made for a shared loss, however, given the sheer volume of shake that was splattered across the table, caramel syrup sticking pieces of Cora's hair together and whipped cream turning Derek's beard more white than brown.

Derek had burst out laughing, a true, full-bellied thing he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt. Cora immediately followed, all high-pitched giggle and snorts so loud they startled the elderly man drinking his morning coffee in the booth next to him, sending them into new waves of laughter.

After that, it was like a dam breaking, the rush of memories and emotion reminding them how it felt to be part of a family, what they used to mean to each other.

From that morning, rides were no longer silent and nights no longer pained. At a Midwestern Walmart, they bought hammocks and camping supplies and slept under the stars, nothing but the bright smell of dirt and the sound of birds around them. Cora flinged out ideas of all the wild and wonderful places they could visit and begged Derek to stop at every strange roadside attraction along the way, from Mount Rushmore to Dollywood to the world’s largest ball of twine. She shoved disposable cameras into the hands of bewildered tourists and adopt a series of poses each more ridiculous than the next, Derek smiling indulgently beside her in each one.

They fought over control of the radio, Cora scoffing at Derek's preference of oldies and classical NPR and switching it to the local top 40 whenever he looked away. After a particularly violent struggle halfway through Louisiana, they agreed on a compromise and stopped for a couple weeks in New Orleans, trying a new jazz club every night and eating their weight in beignets and crawfish during the day.

They packed away their sleeping bags and stayed with an old friend of their mother's in a charm shop just east of the Quarter, falling asleep in her attic bedroom to the laughter and music that poured in from Frenchmen Street each night.

Travelling with Cora was a kind of freedom Derek hadn’t had in years, not since before Laura died. Probably the closest thing to happiness he’d felt, too.

But somewhere, in the back of his head, there was still a niggling voice reminding him he shouldn’t get to have this. Proclaiming his guilt, not only for surviving Beacon Hills when his family couldn’t, but for leaving Scott and his pack alone to deal with whatever fresh hell the town would provide.

He pushed the feeling down whenever he could, told himself the fledgling pack would be alright. They had their differences, but Derek knew that Scott would try and maintain peace; wouldn’t go looking to start fights.

But Stiles…Stiles, on the other hand, had an alarming ability to attract trouble and, even more worryingly, a penchant for seeking it out. If the basic truth of Scott was a desire for peace, Stiles’ was to protect, and that was one worry Derek couldn’t tamp down.

Being a human running with wolves was a uniquely dangerous endeavor, and Stiles was strong, more strong than he should have any right to be. But he’d already proven himself more than willing to throw himself in the path of danger for anyone he cared about - a group that, to Derek’s eternal surprise, had on more than one occasion included himself.

Late at night, with the sound of Cora’s soft snoring beside him, Derek let himself wonder if maybe his guilt wasn’t so much for leaving the pack unprotected as it was for leaving Stiles without anyone who would see when he was about to throw himself under the bus for someone else. Derek knew Scott and his dad loved him, of course they did, but they had too often proved blind to that particular fault of his. But Derek...Derek had protected Stiles as Stiles protected Derek, until now. Who would protect him now? Especially after the ravages of the nogitsune - Stiles couldn’t be expected to be the same, after something like that. No one could. Would Scott or the sheriff understand just how shattering it was to have his body used like that? To have his will taken away and to be used as an instrument in someone else’s destruction? Would they be able to help him the way that he needs?

But those thoughts brought nothing but pain, and Derek had had enough of that, for a while. So he shoved them down, drowned them out, and threw himself into relearning how to just…be.

He focused on the road, the way the scenery changed from ocean to cracked desert to snow-capped mountains and golden fields as they tracked their way across the country.

He focused on the cities, trying something new in each one and collecting experiences and memories in a secret ledger in his head, trying to outweigh the bad with the good. And there was so _much_ good - the lavender latte at a coffee shop deep in the Appalachians, the surfing lessons in Florida, the hours of I Spy and word games in the car, scribbling in a tattered Mad-Libs book they’d picked up at a Goodwill somewhere between Akron and Oklahoma City.

But most of all, he focused on Cora. On cataloging the things he remembered, the things that stayed the same - her laugh, her sweet tooth, her desire to be constantly in motion, looking out for the next adventure - and the even longer list of things that changed; things he never got a chance to learn, like how she was a champion equestrian, hated potatoes in any form but fries, and had been accepted early decision to NYU before the kidnapping.

It was because of this that they decided to end their journey in New York. Derek had never gotten rid of his and Laura’s old apartment; hadn’t had the time, or the opportunity, or the heart. Hadn’t even been back, since he left. But with Cora by his side, it felt a little less scary. A little less wrong.

Opening that door was like stepping back in time. He was hit with a wave of Laura’s scent, all tangy sweetness and sea salt, wrenching the air from his lungs in its familiarity.

It had so much been Laura’s place, pulled together in bits and pieces from the city she loved, from the ancient kitchen with its black and white tile floors to the curbside couch they’d rescued their very first night in the apartment. They had spotted it in the alley as they moved in their meager possessions, carried it up the cramped stairs and collapsed in a heap on its worn cushions, curled together through the night.

Even when the insurance money came through and they could have afforded any apartment in Manhattan, they stayed right where they were. Laura got a job at a record store down the street and Derek worked odd jobs while they went to school.

The couch got pretty yellow pillows with tassels on the corners and the fire escape bloomed with daffodils in flower boxes Derek nailed together from salvaged wood. They spent days pouring over IKEA instructions, growling as they fought to piece together bookshelves they filled one book at a time.

It became a game, seeing who could find the most interesting one; Laura would come home gloating as she lifted a gilded copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ in the original French, bought from a street vendor on 6 th, only for Derek to produce a yellowed 1950’s Betty Crocker cookbook from behind his back, filled with neat handwritten notes cataloging the life and times of the family it belonged to.

He remembers how Laura graciously admitted defeat by trapping him in a headlock and stealing the book out of his hands, paging through as he struggled under her arm. How she showed him a page and he stilled, nodding.

That night was their first attempt at recreating their family’s cinnamon French toast. It came out burnt and tasting all wrong, Laura left wide-eyed and covered in flour when the bag exploded, but they’d laughed, sticky-fingered and gleeful in a way they hadn’t been since before the fire, and Derek can remember thinking that maybe, just maybe, they’d be okay.

It became a challenge, then, to see how many of the recipes they could make without disaster. They’d take turns closing their eyes and flipping through the pages, committing to the first thing they landed on no matter how strange. Laura’s first success was the cardamom spiced pineapple cake, lording it over Derek’s jellied lamb salad. When they got to the end of the book, they bought another, and another, until an army of them from every era and cuisine stretched drunkenly across the crooked shelf above the stove, covers tattered and insides increasingly covered in their own handwriting – Laura’s sprawling and loopy script, Derek’s small and careful cursive.

The books, like everything else in the apartment, were exactly as they left it. His old sneakers and Laura’s beat up green Doc’s sat next to the door, winter coats still hanging on their hooks. Cora hung back as he stepped over the old mail strewn in the entryway and walked slowly through the living room, brushing his fingers over the textbooks propped open on the coffee table, Laura’s notes stuffed between the pages.

Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust, motes floating in the fall of sunshine from the window.

Derek continued to his old room, pushing open the door to his room and taking in the familiar brick walls, the unmade sheets and piles of pillows on the bed on the floor. The beds were the one thing he and Laura spent money on, their one indulgence. They went together to the store, flopping back on every mattress until they found one so soft Laura wanted to weep, mumbling about fluffy sheep clouds and happiness. They ordered two, and bought up every down pillow and plush duvet they could find, hauling them up to the apartment until they’d created twin nests where they could curl up safe and warm and completely insulated from the world, listening to each others’ heartbeats through the wall until they fell asleep. On the bad nights, when Laura’s heart raced and Derek’s muscles ached with a tension he couldn’t seem to release, they pulled their blankets out to the couch and sat together, limbs tangled, silently reading until the sun peaked through the windows.

All his supplies were still tossed haphazardly around the room; dried paints and turpentine spilling out from boxes peeking out from his bed, dirty brushes stuck in a mug on his desk, half-finished projects propped against the walls with reference photos taped to the brick. His thesis project was still hanging on the wall – a massive portrait of Laura, eyes squeezed shut and head thrown back in laughter. He’d had to do her laundry for a month to get her to agree to model for him, but it was worth it – if only so he could have this image to remember her, how she would have wanted to be remembered. Laughing at everything and afraid of nothing.

It was Laura who got him into art in the first place. After they had gotten settled in the apartment, started to feel something resembling safety, she came to him with a card. She’d found a psychologist who was part of a local pack, had experience with supernatural cases, she said. Could help them get better. Start to heal.

Derek fought it at first. Didn’t think he could be fixed. Maybe didn’t want to be. He sat through those first sessions with his arms crossed, responding to the woman’s questions with terse, one word answers.

But Laura was next in line to be Alpha for a reason. It turned out that the place she chose specialized in alternative forms of therapy, including art. After the initial consult, Derek’s sessions were held in the practice’s studio. There, the psychologist guided him through sketching, painting, and sculpting, encouraging him to tune out everything, stop thinking, and just let himself go.

It didn’t feel like he expected; she didn’t force him to talk, didn’t root around in his brain trying to ‘fix’ him. Just showed him a way to find a peace, again. Gave him a safe space to just...act, without thought or consequence.

A place where he could let go, forget for a while, and when he came back up for air have this thing, this completely new, entirely unique thing that he created. A manifestation of everything he couldn’t say, could barely face within himself.

It wasn’t always a beautiful thing – god, those first paintings... Derek cringes at the memory, sometimes. They were terrifying. He’d drench them in red and drag his claws through the canvas, pretending they were Kate’s skin.

They were angry and abrasive and hard to look at – but so was he, at the time. So he couldn’t always make a beautiful thing. But he could make a _good_ thing. And that was something Derek didn’t think he was capable of anymore, something she showed him he could have again.

So he followed it, into college and post-grad and beyond, threw himself into finding his own kind of peace somewhere between clay and canvas, the way Laura found hers in music and academia, the way they both found it in each other and the small, happy life they’d carved out for themselves.

It wasn’t that hard going through his own room, but Derek hesitated in front of the door to Laura’s, chest tightening until it choked the air from his lungs. He didn’t notice Cora coming up behind him until she rested a hand on his back and leaned against him, a line of warmth that soothed the tense line of his shoulders and provided the push he needed to open the door.

Her scent was even stronger in the room, laced with contentment and comfort in the moss-colored sheets and clinging to the clothes spilling out of the closet. Like the woman it belonged to, Laura’s room spilled over with life, from the stacks of texts for her half-written PhD thesis to the battered drum kit she’d got on Craigslist, posters and pictures and notes covering every spare inch of wall.

Derek leaned against the doorframe, flooded with memories of Laura cackling as she sat behind the snare and recited a litany of bad puns, adding her own ba-dum-tss after each one, or the times she’d force Derek to sit on her bed and critique her date night outfit choices, tossing discarded items over his head and tackling him if he didn’t compliment her enough.

He watched as Cora lingered in front of the photos, reaching out to pick up the one framed on the bedside table of Laura and Derek, heads smushed together and smiling idiotically.

 “That’s from her college graduation,” he said, clearing his throat. “I don’t know if you remember, but she was at Berkeley, before. Majored in gender and women’s studies. She transferred to NYU to finish, and stayed there for her MA.”

He nods towards the stack of Judith Butler and Laura Mulvey books near her bed.

“She was actually working on her PhD. Wanted to be a professor, ‘shape the dumb nubile minds of the youth’ – her words, not mine.”

He smiles. “Some of your teachers might actually remember her; she didn’t really keep a low profile.”

Cora huffed out a laugh, trailing her fingers across the image.

“I wish I could have known her as an adult. Wish I could have remembered her when I did. She sounds amazing.”

She put the photo down and walked over to Derek, slinging an arm around his shoulders.

“But you’re not so bad, either. C’mon nerd, let’s order pizza and you can show me all the embarrassing photos from your college years. Alright?”

She reached over and noogied him, laughing he tried to twist away.

Derek slapped her hands down and grumbled, but he felt something light and warm expanding in his chest, grateful for her presence. To have a sister again, even if he knows it won’t be the same. And maybe that’s okay – maybe he could use a little different in his life.

“Alright. But no anchovies this time – the car stank for two days last time, fish breath.”

He poked her in the stomach, ignoring her shout of “Asshole!” as he walked away to call their old favorite pizza joint, his smile a small, hopeful thing amongst the dust.

*

_Present Day_

Rian furrows her brow as she stands in front of Stiles, eyeing him warily. He’d been staring at a mummified head in Returns for the past quarter of an hour, and she was starting to get worried – she was fairly sure that one wasn’t spelled as a fascinator, but, then again, those things tended to look alike.

She reaches out a hand and waves it slowly in front of his face, sighing at the lack of response. Leaning down, she rummages around in the bottom drawer of his desk, making a small noise of triumph when she pulls out the air horn she’d stashed there for just such an occasion.

Of cours she knows magical ways to break the trance, but over the years she’s found that they’re not half as fun as more…unconventional methods.

With just a touch of schadenfreude, she points the horn at his face and plugs one ear as she presses the trigger. Stiles flails awake at the sound, falling off his chair, and Rian can’t help but cackle at the way he’s sprawled across the floor.

“What time is it?” Stiles shouts, looking frantically for his phone amongst the pile of papers he knocked to the ground.

“About 6:10, I think,” Rian answers, still chuckling as she tucks the horn back away for future use.

Stiles yelps, shoving his laptop and notes into his bag and taking off towards the stairs without a second glance, leaving a bemused Rian in his wake.

He throws a wave to Boris as he tears out, darting between ambling tourists as he races down the steps and towards the Monument.

Derek’s already waiting for him there, leaning against a flagpole with his face turned towards the sunset. Stiles sees his nostrils flare and his eyes open as he approaches, straightening up and walking towards him.

“Hey,” Stiles says, bracing his hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath. “Sorry I’m late – slight artifact mishap. Were you waiting long?”

Derek shakes his head “No, not at all. Besides, I don’t spend as much time out here as I should. One of the most famous places in the country, and I usually only see it as I’m rushing by on my way to work.”

Stiles spares a glance at the obelisk and the echo of the sky in the reflecting pool, colors rolling in wind-blown ripples across the surface.

“Huh, I guess you’re right. I haven’t really been out here before. Haven’t seen much of the city, if I’m being honest,” he shrugs. “But you have to admit, it’s kind of…ostentatious. One might say overcompensatory.”

 “Ah, is that your artistic opinion?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No, my artistic opinion is that it looks like a fuck-off big penis. But, you know. Each to their own.”

Derek barks out a laugh.  “Can’t wait to take you around the museum properly. You’ll set the art world ablaze with those insights.”

“Ooh, is that an official offer for a private tour? The soccer moms will be seething.” Stiles winks at him, liking the way Derek’s cheeks flush the barest pink. This new Derek flusters much more easily, Stiles is noticing, and he likes it. Likes it _a lot._

“I can actually show you around the city a bit, if you want. If you really haven’t seen it, I mean. I’ve only been here since summer, but I’ve found some good places,” Derek offers, crossing his arms in an attempt at casualness.

“Might take you up on that, big guy. For now, I believe I was promised life-changing curly fries?”

Derek nods towards the road. “It’s just a couple minutes’ walk down the road. Did you drive here?”

Stiles shakes his head and starts walking in the direction he indicated. “No, sadly it’s public transport for me these days. I didn’t think my baby could last the cross-country trip.”

“If I remember correctly, that thing didn’t look like it could survive a trip to the grocery store,” Derek snorts.

Stiles scoffs, affronted. “Excuse you, she’s a classic, and if _I_ remember correctly, was instrumental in saving your life more than once. Show some respect.”

“My apologies,” Derek says, raising his hands in surrender. “No trashtalking the deathtrap, got it.”

“You best check yourself before you wreck yourself, my dude,” Stiles warns, pointing a finger at him. “I’ve been taking spark lessons all summer, and I’m not saying I know a spell that imitates genital herpes, but I’m not saying I _don’t_ , either.”

“Noted,” Derek snorts. “We’re here, by the way.” He stops in front of the door of a checkered diner on the corner, pulling it open and waving for Stiles to go in.

“Be with you in a minute,” the grey-haired waitress calls from behind the counter, head ducked as she rifles through a shelf. She emerges with a box of straws in each hand, face lighting up when she sees Stiles and Derek standing there.

“Derek, honey! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. You’re in luck, your favorite booth just opened up.” The woman sets down the boxes and dusts her hands off on her apron before coming around the counter to pat Derek on the cheek.

“It’s been too long, pet. Not sick of my cooking, are you?”

Derek laughs as he follows her to a booth next to a wide window, looking out at the busy sidewalk and a café across the street.

“The opposite, actually – I’ve gained 10 pounds since moving here. Been trying to eat at home more. You’re killing me here, Rita.”

Stiles slides into the seat across from him and smiles at the woman as she pulls out her notepad.

“You watch out for this one,” she says to Stiles.“He’ll eat you out of house and home. Nearly demolished my entire supply of bacon and eggs the first time he came in. Now, what can I get you boys to drink?”

Derek looks over at Stiles. “Do you trust me?”

“Go for it, big guy,” he snorts. _Not like I already trust you with my life, or anything_.

“Then two of my usual please, Rita,” Derek says with a grin.

“You got it, sugar.”

She comes back a few minutes later with two milkshakes in tall glasses, complete with leftovers in frosty metal cups.

“Aw, Derek, you gonna take me to the sock hop next?” Stiles teases, plucking the cherry off the top of one. “Pin me so everyone knows we’re going steady?”

“Shut up and drink your milkshake, asshole.” 

Stiles winks and obediently takes a sip, pursing plush lips around the straw, and Derek immediately regrets all his life choices.

Stiles makes an intrigued noise, indifferent to Derek’s suffering. “Is there raspberry in this?”

Derek nods. “It’s a regular vanilla milkshake, but they throw a slice of raspberry rhubarb pie, and Rita does mine with fudge and extra whipped cream.”

“Never thought I’d say it, but you’ve got good taste, my man.”

Derek gets a small, pleased grin on his face and Stiles feel something inside him melt a little bit.

Rita returns to take their order and Stiles in amusement as they banter back and forth, Derek looking more comfortable with her than he’d ever believe; not even flinching when she goes to ruffle his hair after he wheedles her for extra bacon on his burger and sauce on the side.

“Anything for you, sweetheart,” she says, patting him on the cheek.

He winks and shoots her a dazzling grin. “You’re a queen, Rita.”

Stiles waits for her to walk out of earshot before leaning across the table and narrowing his eyes at Derek. “I know what you’re doing!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”Derek replies, feigning aloofness.

“You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about, you shameless minx!” Stiles accuses, waving a finger in his face. Derek raises a judgmental eyebrow and bats Stiles’ hand away.

“I know that smile! That’s your ‘I’m terribly charming and will woo you with my dimples and flawless stubble’ smile. You’re totally flirting for free food!”

“You can’t prove anything.”

Stiles harrumphs and sits back in his seat, casting a meaningful look at Derek when the food arrives and his plate _clearly_ has more curly fries than Stiles’.

He sneaks a hand over and steals a couple, adding them to his own pile.

“I’m confiscating these. You got them through nefarious means and as the son of a sheriff I have a duty to see that you face the consequences.”

Derek snorts. “I somehow doubt your jurisdiction in DC, deputy. But I got them for you anyway; Not a big fan of curly fries.”

 “You _heathen_ ,” Stiles gasps. He shovels Derek’s fries on to his plate, patting them lovingly.

“Don’t listen to the bad man, babies. You are beautiful, precious spirals of grease and delight,” he coos, ignoring the way Derek rolls his eyes across the table.

Stiles pops a few in his mouth and makes a considering noise. “Not half bad.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and pushes his side of sauce towards him. “Dip them in this. It’s the house secret sauce.”

Stiles eyes the orange goop skeptically, but dips a fry in and tentatively takes a bite. His eyes immediately flutter shut and he lets out a moan that has Derek shifting in his seat.

“Sweet manna from _heaven_.”

His eyes snap back open and he points the half-eaten fry at Derek. “Derek, buddy, you gotta find out what’s in that. I don’t care how secret it is – it’s time to use your powers for good. I need this in my mouth every day, do you understand? _Every day_.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Derek promises, averting his gaze from where Stiles is licking excess sauce from his fingers.

“So, if you’re not a curly fry guy, who’d you get the hot tip from?” Stiles asks.

“Cora, actually - she helped me move down and visits sometimes. She’s studying Latin American literature at NYU,” Derek says proudly.

He pulls a picture out from his wallet and pushes it across the table. It’s slightly worn from repeat folding, but it’s unmistakably a photo of Cora standing under the Washington Square Arch, rolling her eyes but smiling indulgently at the camera.

Stiles traces a thumb over the image before handing it back. “She looks good. Happy.”

 “She is, I think,” Derek says. “She’s been living in our old apartment because I knew she’d be kicked out in the first week if she had to live in dorms. Last I heard, she was spending full moons up north with a local pack and apparently seeing a guy in her Pablo Neruda course.”

“Have you been up there to intimidate him yet?”

“Not yet, but I have plans.” He smiles with a hint of fang and Stiles snorts out a laugh.

“You’re not half so intimidating as you think you are, buddy. I think it’s the bunny teeth.”

Derek flushes. “Laura used to make fun of my teeth all the time.”

 “Her God-given right as big sister,” Stiles says with a nod.

“Teeth or not, you seemed pretty intimidated there in the beginning”

“Yeah, key words being _in the beginning_. Before I knew how much of a marshmallow you really are.” Stiles says, reaching over and poking him in the (distractingly firm) chest while Derek pouts.

“Aw c’mon buddy, don’t give me that look. Look how far we’ve come! Surely curly fries and milkshakes beat threats of bodily harm?”

Derek ducks his head a little. “I never would have followed through on any of it, you know that, right?”

Stiles’ teasing smile softens.

“Yeah, I know. But I’m still going to give you shit for it. _I’m going to rip your throat out. With my teeth._ ” He says in his best Christian Bale Batman voice.

“God, were you always that dramatic? I bet baby Derek didn’t play well with others. Did you threaten other kids in the sandbox? Make a blanket fort and declare it your territory?”

Derek rolls his eyes.

“I was the model middle child, actually. Laura was rebellious one. She’d come home with a new hair color or piercing every other week. She and Morrell would experiment with adding wolfsbane and herbs to the dye to get it to stay longer than a couple hours, and used spelled metal so she couldn’t heal over the jewellery. I think our parents were more amused than anything, really. They gave her her first pair of Doc Martens for Christmas one year, forest green. She wore them everywhere, with this old jean jacket she stole from Dad covered in patches and pins.”

He leans back in his seat, smiling at the memory.

“She always had a cause, you know? Wage equality, conservation, abortion rights - you name it, she campaigned for it. She even tried going vegan for a while, and I remember my mom having to console her after she accidentally ate a rabbit on a full-moon run. I’m pretty sure she actually had a memorial service for it - Peter took pictures, promising to show them to her future spouse.”

Stiles snorts, perfectly able to picture it. There’s no doubt in his mind Peter was the Uncle Jesse of the Hale family.

 “She used to drive me to school every day and introduce me to all these feminist girl groups and punk bands she liked - Bikini Kill, Sleater-Kinney, Flogging Molly and all of that.” Derek takes a bite of his burger, chewing as he thinks.

“I think that’s what my parents were most proud of, actually - they always said we could grow up to be anything we wanted, as long as we didn’t have bad taste in music. They were both big into the punk scene in the 70’s and 80’s. They actually met in the crowd at The Clash’s 1982 gig in Seattle. My dad accidentally spilled some of his beer on mom while she was dancing, and she turned around, chugged the rest of his drink, threw it over her shoulder, and kept on going. He said it was love at first sight. She said he was cute, but had bad taste in beer.”

He grins, dimples on full show.

“They played ‘Rock the Casbah’ for their wedding dance.”

Stiles laughs, throwing his head back. “They sound great. I wish I could have met them. Laura, too.”

Derek’s smile softens a touch.

“Yeah, me too. I think they would have liked you. Laura, especially. She probably would have adopted you.” He hums, considering. “Maybe we dodged a bullet on that one.”

“Excuse you, I am a delight!” Stiles squawks, affronted.

Derek laughs, full-bellied, but doesn’t deny it; just sips on his milkshake and enjoys the warmth bubbling in his chest.

“You don’t talk about your family much; do you have any siblings or cousins I haven’t heard about?” He asks after a little bit.

“No, it’s just me and my dad. I have some cousins in Poland on my mom’s side, but I haven’t seen them since I was little. My parents had talked about having another kid, and I know they were trying when my mom…”

Stiles trails off, pushing a few spare fries around his plate.

“It made it a little bit harder, I think. Not only did my dad lose the love of his life, he lost any chance of having another piece of her when she left. All he had was me. And I was never really sure that was enough, you know?”

“I’m sure he never thought that, Stiles,” Derek frowns.

Stiles shrugs, unconvinced.

“I mean, he never said anything. Never made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, but I couldn’t help thinking about it, you know? I was a difficult child, I get that. Even before the werewolf stuff began, and I tried - tried to be good, to make up for the fact that he wanted more children, and all he got was me, but I just...I feel like I always fell short, you know?”

Derek nods, slowly.

“Yeah, I understand. But Stiles, you’ve got to know how much you mean to your dad. How much he needs you, loves you. During the nogitsune...hedad was a wreck, Stiles. The thought of losing you nearly pushed him over the edge. I saw it, saw how broken he would be if he lost you.”

Derek leans forward, intent on him.

“You’re his whole world, Stiles. He doesn’t need anyone else. Doesn’t want anyone else.”

Stiles feels his throat tighten, and fidgets with a straw wrapper, staring down at the table.

“You never have been one to beat around the bush, have you?”

Derek shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “It’s the truth.”

Stiles hums noncommittally and changes the subject.

“So, million dollar question: what have you been up to since you left Beacon Hills, and how the hell did you end up here? I imagined a lot of different scenarios man, but I’ve gotta be honest – you as a tour guide wasn’t even on the _list._ ”

 “I’m not a tour guide,” Derek chuckles.

“I’ve just been filling in for a few weeks while the normal guide is out on maternity leave. I’m an art historian and assistant curator focusing on abstract expressionism. But I’m curious, what did you imagine?”

Stiles huffs out a laugh. “That’s a real can of worms, dude. Sure you want to get into this?”  

“Hit me with it,” Derek nods.

“Alright man, you asked for it. So, at first, it was just silly stuff, you know? Like you moving to the Canadian wilderness to be a mountain man and fishing with your bare hands, or spending all your money on a houseboat so you could sail around and never talk to anyone again. I thought maybe you’d get a cat – you always seemed like a cat person to me. All aloof on the outside but secretly, selectively cuddly.”

He winks at Derek, but then grows serious.

“Then the months went on and we didn’t hear from you, and I worried maybe something happened; a rival pack had found you, or some batshit relative of Kate’s.”

He taps nervously on the counter a few times.

“I uh, tried to call, a few times. Just to check, you know, but every time it said the number was no longer in service. Don’t even know why I kept trying after that first time…I felt, I don’t know, guilty maybe, that you were on your own. That you didn’t have anyone watching your back.”

He shrugs. “We kind of saved each other, you know? That was always our thing, even in the beginning. I know you’re the big bad werewolf and I’m just, well,” Stiles waves a hand at himself.

“Not quite human, I guess. But you know what I mean.”

Stiles shifts in his seat, but Derek’s just watches him, waiting patiently for him to continue.

“I ended up having to ask _Peter_ , which, honestly, ew. He wouldn’t tell me if he knew where you were, of course he wouldn’t, but he did say that he’d know if something happened to you. That he’d feel it. And I guess I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t lying to me, but I stopped worrying as much, you know? Like if something did happen or you needed us, there’d be a sign. Like I wasn’t flying in the dark, anymore.”

Stiles smiles a little.

“So I tried to imagine happy endings for you. Like if I could picture it hard enough, it’d come true. Like if I really, really believed, I could give that to you. My favorite one was you somehow finding my mom’s cabin up in the Cascades, and holing up there for a little bit. Reading, fishing, running fully shifted through the woods. It’s pretty empty up there, you could get away with it. No one would see you. You’d be safe.”

He meets Derek’s gaze. “That’s all I hoped for you, really. To be safe – wherever you were.”

When he finishes, Derek looks little shell-shocked, mouth lightly parted and food abandoned on his plate.

He reaches over and stills Stiles’ hands where they’re ripping apart a straw wrapper.

“I _was_ safe. And happy, I think. Or as close as I’d come in a long time. And I wasn’t alone – Cora was with me.”

Derek smiles at him.

“I know it’s not the same but…she looked after me. And I looked after her. I was safe, Stiles. I still am. You don’t have to worry about me.”  
  
Derek releases Stiles’ hand and leans back in his seat.

“We actually were in Washington, for a little bit. When we left, we just pointed the car in a direction and drove. North until we hit Canada, then zigzagging across the country, for months. Relearning each other, I guess. Remembering what it meant to live without a gun at our backs every day.”

He smiles. “We didn’t find your cabin, but we drove through the mountains. Camped in the woods. Who knows, maybe we only missed you by a few days. Maybe you were even there.”

He hesitates for a second, his blush darkening.

“I thought about you too, you know. Wondered if you were safe. If you were going to be okay after…well, everything. If I shouldn’t have stayed to help you through it. I thought about what you might do after high school – my money was on Stanford, but I wasn’t sure what you’d study. It always seemed like you had your fingers in everything, and nothing I imagined felt right.”

Stiles snorts.

“You’re telling me. I considered everything from biochem to film studies. But right now I’m on track to double major in history and folklore, maybe minor in anthropology. I figure with Beacon Hills being the way that it is, it couldn’t hurt to know more, you know?” He shrugs. “Plus, I mean, I like it. The research, trying to figure out what’s actually true and what’s embellished bullshit, especially now that, you know, the threat of death isn’t a factor.”

Stiles looks down, voice quieting a bit.

“But you leaving wasn’t a mistake – never think that. You needed to get out, deserved a chance to live without all that hanging over your head. I’m not going to say that I was okay, because I wasn’t, and I’m probably still not, but I survived. We figured it out, me and my dad and Scott and everyone else. It all worked out. And I’m getting better, slowly. Having a familiar face in the city is definitely going to help, though,” He says, smiling softly at Derek.  

“But you didn’t really finish answering my question. So, did any of my imaginings get it right?”

Derek laughs, thinking about it for a moment.

“Let’s see…I can’t sail, so the houseboat is out. Never actually made it into Canada. And I don’t have a cat but um, I do have a pet.”

Stiles perks up.

“Is it a dog? Oh man, please be a dog. I’ve had serious dog envy since going to college. I think it’s something in the water.”

Derek ducks his head.“No…it’s, um, his name is Jack. He’s a rabbit.”

 “You…have a rabbit?” Stiles asks, mouth dropping open.

Derek stares at the table, the tips of his ears lightly pink. 

“He’s an English Angora. The lady said they’re a noble breed.”

He takes a big bite of his burger, avoiding Stiles’ gaze.

Stiles lets out a slightly hysterical giggle. “

Have I entered an alternate universe? Is Derek Hale, king of leather and brooding looks, former Alpha and snarling creature of the night actually telling me he’s the adoptive father to a fluffy bunny rabbit?”

Derek finally looks at him, raising a challenging eyebrow.

“I’d pit Jack against you any day – he’s kind of an asshole. Wouldn’t even let me pet him the first month without some light maiming. Seriously, his teeth are _insane._ ”

Stiles loses it, hunching over the table with laughter.

“You’re one to talk, buddy. Holy shit, this is the best day of my life. Not only do you own a bunny, you own the _world’s_ _grumpiest bunny._ I don’t know which god I’m supposed to be thanking right now, but let’s just go for blanket gratitude because _oh my god._ How did this even – did Cora get him for you?”

Derek shifts in his seat, avoiding eye contact again.

“No, uh, my therapist recommended it. Said getting a pet would be good for me, practice creating bonds and help with some…anxiety issues. I picked him up from a local shelter – I was originally going to get a cat, but I saw him sitting in a cage in the back and when I asked, they said he’d been there for months. That no one would adopt him because he wasn’t very friendly, and bit everyone who came to see him.”

Stiles’ laughter quiets immediately, a little floored by the admission and flooded with warmth he can’t fully explain. He reaches out with a foot, nudging Derek’s leg until he looks over at him.

“Sounds like someone else I know. I’m glad you guys found each other; I don’t like the thought of you having to grump around the house alone.”  

He shoots Derek a small smile.

“So you’ve, uh, been seeing someone? That’s good. I mean, it’s good that you have someone to talk to. I mean, if you don’t want to talk about it, it’s totally cool. We can talk about something else, like, anything else. I don’t want you to feel pressured or anything. How about those Yankees, eh?”

Derek lets out a soft laugh, the line of his shoulders relaxing a little. He smiles at Rita as she comes over to fill their water glasses.

“No, it’s alright. I should…I’m supposed to try and be more open about things.” He shoots Stiles a bemused look. “Part of my homework, apparently.”

Stiles grins back and nudges him with his foot again. “Well then open up to me, big guy. I’m all ears.”

Derek rolls his eyes and traps Stiles’ foot between his calves. Stiles fights him for a minute, twisting in his seat before admitting defeat and flopping back, waving for Derek to continue.

 Derek keeps their feet tangled together as he begins to talk, taking comfort in the warmth of the touch.

“I’ve been seeing someone in town for a couple months, someone my old psychologist in New York recommended. Laura and I had tried therapy for a while, after the fire. Her idea, not mine. She said that Kate had taken enough from us – wasn’t going to let her ruin any chance of happiness for the rest of our lives.”

He smiles ruefully.

“I fought it at first. I was never good with words, even before the fire, and after... talking about it seemed impossible. But that first place in New York happened to specialize in art therapy, and that...that helped.”

Derek huffs out a small laugh.

“It’s the reason I decided to study art, actually. Laura had hounded me into getting my GED, but I didn’t know what I wanted to do and had been dragging my feet in applying for college. She had taken to leaving brochures around the house – hidden in my sock drawer or behind the milk in the fridge so I couldn’t ignore them. I found the pamphlet for Steinhardt at the bottom of my laundry basket. They had a good studio art program and I could stay in our apartment, so I went there for my BFA. I ended up doing my MA in Modern and Contemporary Art at Columbia, and was looking at maybe going for a PhD when Laura...”

He clears his throat, looking away.

“Anyway, there wasn’t much time for it in Beacon Hills. All my materials were still in New York, and I just didn’t see the point. When Laura died, it felt like everything we had done, all that progress we’d made and the life we built for ourselves, it was just gone. Didn’t seem worth it anymore.”

 “Derek,” Stiles murmurs, reaching out and resting a hand on his forearm.

Derek doesn’t really react, but he doesn’t brush him off, either. Just leans into the touch a little and keeps going.

“When I finally went back to the apartment with Cora, all my stuff was there, exactly how I had left it. Projects still laying on the floor, like they’d been waiting for me to come back and finish what I started. But I knew I couldn’t stay in the apartment, maybe couldn’t even stay in New York. That city was so much a part of Laura – she loved everything about it, the grit, the noise, the smells, all of it. And walking back into the apartment, reliving all the memories we had together – some of the happiest moments of my life – god, it was like getting a piece of her back, and breaking my heart all over again.”

He smiles, bittersweet.

“I’m glad Cora is there. She _should_ be there; Laura would have wanted it. But sometimes…sometimes I feel guilty because I got to have both of them, you know? Got to spend those years with Laura, watch her grow into the woman and Alpha my family always knew she would be; carve out a life with her that was happy, and good, despite everything. And when I thought she was gone, and I was completely alone, I found Cora. Got to see all the ways she’s has grown and changed, have this piece of my life and my family back when I thought it was all gone.”

 His voice grows rough. “But Laura never got that chance, and Cora barely remembers Laura. And I don’t deserve it, Stiles. I don’t deserve any of it. Out of everyone in my family, I’m the one that deserves to suffer, and yet I’m the one who has been given the most. How am I supposed to live with that?”

Derek’s voice is strained, plaintive, and Stiles’ heart breaks for him, every bone in his body aching with secondhand pain.

“God, Derek – Derek, listen to me.” Stiles grip grows tighter on Derek’s arm as he leans towards him.

“It’s not fair. It’s not. Very little of your life has been anything close to fair. It’s not fair what happened to your family, and it’s not fair that you’ve been used, and abused, and taken advantage of, and put in danger time and time and time again for someone else’s ends. It’s not fair so many people have died, and that you have lived, not because you don’t deserve to, but because it’s not fair to make you feel the pain of it every day, to constantly relieve the horrible things that have happened to you, and feel like any of it’s your fault.”

Stiles locks eyes with him, pleading.

 “None of it was Derek, none of it is your fault, and it’s not fair that you’ve gone through hell and come out the other side only to spend your life regretting that you survived at all. Laura loved you, and I know Cora does too, and from everything you’ve told me, I know Laura wouldn’t have wanted you to waste that.”

Stiles smiles at him.

“You’ve got your family back Derek, against all odds and against all hope. And in my opinion, that is the _least_ you deserve after everything you’ve been through. You’ve got to know that, Derek. You’ve got to.”

 He starts to pull away, but Derek’s hand comes to cover his own. Stiles looks up and sees a look that on anyone else he’d call vulnerable, Derek staring at him so intensely he can feel the heat rush to his face.

He squeezes Stiles’ hand and opens his mouth as if to say something, but closes it just as fast, brow furrowing. And Stiles gets it. Understands that this Derek, however much has changed, is still the Derek he knew in Beacon Hills. Still sometimes uncomfortable finding the words he needs, especially when it’s something as personal as this. He gets it.

So he smiles at Derek and squeezes back one last time, then pulls away and changes the subject.

“So, if you left Cora in New York, how exactly did you end up in DC, of all places? Driven by a love for _House of Cards_? Got some secret presidential aspirations?”

Derek huffs out a laugh, grateful for the distraction.

“That was just luck, actually. I got a break when I met up with my old thesis advisor for lunch – she mentioned that she had a friend at the Hirshhorn looking for an assistant curator and was willing to put in a good word. I couldn’t think of a reason to say no, so here I am.” He shrugs. “The real question is, how did _you_ end up working at the Smithsonian?”

“Honestly, it was mostly luck for me as well. Was looking for a job, saw the flyer, and next thing I know, I’m tossed head first back into the supernatural world via Dr. Orian St. Cyprian and her vast collection of weird and wonderful objects, with a side of classic American history,” Stiles says, slurping on his milkshake.

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up. “Rian’s still working there?”

Stiles spit-takes, spraying milkshake across the table.

“You know her?” He asks incredulously, discretely mopping up drops with his sleeve.

Derek shrugs. “Sort of – my mom knew her. They sent letters back and forth occasionally, and I’m pretty sure there are some Hale artifacts in the collections. But god, that was years ago. She’s gotta be ancient.”

Stiles sits up straighter at that, making a mental note to immediately pull those objects for a good snoop on his next shift.

“She doesn’t look a day over 50 to me, but I wouldn’t put money on it; I haven’t figured out exactly what she is yet, but I know she’s _something._ Your mom didn’t happen to tell you, did she?” He asks hopefully.

Derek shakes his head as he polishes off the last of his burger.

“Nope, sorry. But I’d like to come and meet her sometime, if it’s okay with you. I’m not sure how much she knows about my family, and if she and my mom were close…”

Stiles’ smile softens. “Yeah, of course. I’d love to take you down, sometime. Maybe, um, maybe after we could go –“

“Sorry to interrupt you two, but it’s closing time. You either gotta skedaddle or get back in the kitchen and help me with dishes.” Both Stiles and Derek jump at the sound of Rita’s voice, too caught up in each other to notice her walking up.

And apparently too caught up, Stiles realizes as he looks around, that the diner had emptied out.

Derek looks equally surprised, frowning as he checks the time and sees that it’s nearly 9 p.m. “Sorry about that Rita, I didn’t realize how late it was.”

“Not a problem, sweetheart. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” she says, slipping the bill on to the table.

Stiles looks sheepishly at Derek.

“Sorry, I guess I wasn’t really paying attention to the time,” he apologizes, pulling a few bills from his wallet.

“No, it’s fine…I wasn’t either. This was, this was good. Different, I think, than how I expected this to go, but in a good way,” Derek says as he swats Stiles’ hand away, laying his card down instead. “What were you going to ask, before? You didn’t finish.”

Stiles’ cheeks burn.

“Oh, uh, I was just going to ask if maybe you wanted to do this again, sometime. We could go for lunch after you meet Rian, maybe?”

 “I’d like that,” Derek says, smiling. “When do you work next?”

“On Monday,” Stiles answers, still trying to shove his half of the bill under Derek’s hand. “Will you be leading the tour group again?”

 “I’m supposed to, but I think I can get my coworker to take it; she owes me a favor.” Derek huffs and grabs Stiles’ wrist, pushing it and the money away from him. “And this is on me. Seriously, Stiles. Keep your money. You can get the next one.”

Stiles relents and shoves the bills back in his wallet. “Just this once, okay? You may be richer than God, but I’ve got my pride, okay?

He stands and shrugs his coat on while Derek says goodbye to Rita.

“Thanks for coming in sweetheart, don’t be a stranger! And bring that little cutie with you, too. I like the look of him,” she calls out, winking in Stiles’ direction.

Stiles barks out a laugh and waves goodbye, teasing Derek for the blush on his cheeks as he follows him out the door. It’s dark as Derek walks him back to the bus stop, and chilly enough that he wishes he’d brought a scarf, but there’s a steady warmth glowing in his chest.

As his bus pulls up, Stiles turns to Derek.

“Monday then? You’ll actually come?” He asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Derek smiles at him, dimples out and absolutely devastating as he nods.

“I’ll be there.”

*

On Monday, Jules ambushes him the second he steps through the door.

“So, how was the tour? Did you spot him? What did you think?” She asks, elbowing him in the ribs as she walks him towards the archives.

Stiles laughs, hip-checking her back. “Yeah, I saw him.”

“And? Exactly your type, right? Am I right or am I right?”

 “I mean, you’re not wrong. But let’s be honest, he’s everyone’s type.” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

Jules crows, pumping a fist in the air. “Come on, give me details! Did you get his number? Hit him with one of your famous Stilinski lines? God, at least tell me you introduced yourself. Is it too soon to go back there for lunch? It’s not stalking if it’s a tour.”

 “Yeah, not sure that argument would hold up in court,” Stiles laughs. “But it’s moot anyway – he’s meeting me for lunch today.”

Jules’ jaw drops. “Are you fucking kidding me? Nicely done, my friend,” she says, punching him in the arm.

Stiles winces and rubs the spot. “Hey, be gentle with the Stiles - I’m 147 pounds of pile of pale skin and fragile bones.”

“And yet clearly that’s working for Art History Hottie, over there,” Jules snorts. “Seriously, what was your big move? Did you trip over the sculpture and fall into his arms? Did he sweep you off your feet with his knowledge of neo-dadaism?”

“Neither, actually. Turns out we already knew each other,” Stiles smiles. “His name’s Derek, and he’s from Beacon Hills originally, too. We had our meet-cute years ago, if your given value of ‘meet-cute’ involves trespassing and vague threats of bodily harm.”

He fiddles with the strap on his bag.

“Nothing ever happened back then, and we lost touch when he moved away. But he’s…different now, I think. I mean, he’s always been hot like burning but always kind of off-limits, you know? But now…it feels a little more like, I don’t know, potential?”

Stiles turns to gauge Jules’ response, but she’s no longer next to him. He frowns and turns around to see her stopped in the middle of the hallway, jaw hanging open.

 “You _know_ him? He’s from your hometown? Jesus, Stiles, that is some serious romance novel shit right there. I mean, _holy shit_.”

She catches back up to him and smacks him on the shoulder.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I gave you my number for a reason, asshole. But, come on, picture it: old friends and simmering potential, fated to reconnect on a foreign shore after miles of self-growth and actualization to find the answers were with each other, all along.”

 She clasps her hands to her breast and Stiles honestly cannot tell if she’s joking, anymore.

“All you need is a scene where he carries you away from danger, cradled in his arms on some windswept peak. Both of you shirtless and glistening, obviously.”

Stiles groans, burying his face in his hands. “God, I’d laugh, but you don’t know how plausible that is.”

 “Also, if everyone in your town looks like that, I’m going to need you to take me home for the holidays.” She says, already pulling out her phone to check ticket prices.

Stiles barks out a laugh as he drops his hands and swipes his employee card at the door. “Deal. Now go back to your desk and let me work, you menace.”

Jules blows a raspberry at him as she starts back down the hallway, muttering to herself as she slides behind her desk. This is the most excitement she’s had in weeks, and there is no _way_ she’s letting Stiles off the hook that easily.

*

True to his word, Derek shows up at the museum at 12 on the dot. He stops at the front desk for directions to the archive and a woman with dark, curly hair gives them to him with a smirk, eyes glinting in a way that says she knows something he doesn’t. Derek files it away to ask Stiles about later.

When he finds the entrance, Stiles is already there waiting for him, leaning against the wooden door and playing with something on his phone. Derek clears his throat as he walks up and Stiles fumbles his phone, catching it just before it hits the ground.

He shoves the phone back in his pocket and smiles up at Derek. “Hey, you came. How are you?”

“I’m good. Excited, I think,” Derek says, smiling back.

“Yeah? Rian is pretty awesome, you’ll like her. C’mon, it’s just through here,” Stiles says, nodding towards the door. He takes Derek through and down the stairs, throwing a wave to Boris on their way past.

When they get to the main door, Stiles pauses and traces his finger in a complicated shape over the wood. At Derek’s questioning look, he blushes a little.

“I redid the entire ward system a couple weeks ago. If you’re not pre-approved and I’m not here to deactivate it, there are some fairly nasty side effects. Electric shock, temporary paralysis, and a shot of skunk spray, just for kicks. I designed it myself,” he says, not fully able to keep the pride from his voice.

Derek raises his eyebrows, impressed, and follows Stiles through the door and to a side office.

“Come in, Stiles, I’m just finishing up here,” Rian says, scribbling something in the file open on her desk. She lifts her head and immediately zeros in on Derek standing in the doorway.

“Derek Hale, as I live and breathe,” she says, eyes widening in shock.

Stiles frowns and looks back at Derek.  “I thought you said you guys hadn’t met yet?”

Rian puts down the file and pushes away from her desk, stretching a hand out to Derek to shake.

“We haven’t, but I would recognize that face anywhere. Your mom used to send photos with the Christmas cards. Always knew you’d grow into those ears,” she teases, not unkindly.

He accepts the handshake and smiles at her tentatively. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. My mother talked about you a lot.”

Stiles rounds back on his boss, eyes wide. “Are you saying you have pictures of baby Derek and _you never showed me_?” He asks, wounded.

Rian snorts and drops Derek’s hand.

“I might have considered it, if you ever deigned to mention you two were friends, much less that he was in DC. How long have you been here, son?” She asks, turning back to Derek.

“Just a couple months – I’ve been working at the Hirshorne as an art historian,” Derek says, flushing a little at the pet name.

“I would have come by earlier, but it’d been so many years; I didn’t know if you were still working here of if you’d have any idea who I was.”

“Of course I would - I never got out to California to meet you all like your mother wanted, but it’ll be a cold day in Hell before I don’t recognize a Hale.” Rian says, smiling.

“I don’t know if you knew this, but Talia was actually courting me to become her emissary – but I see that you’re well taken care of now,” she says with a bemused look at Stiles.

“I’m not really – I don’t” Stiles stutters out as Derek’s cheek darken, silent in the corner. “We’re not really in the same pack.”

Rian cocks an eyebrow and pins them both with an unimpressed look. “Is that right?”  

She hums and gazes between the two of them for a moment, considering.

“Well, I hope you’re taking care of each other nonetheless. It can be hard being separated from your packs, and it’s good to have someone watching your back.”

She rests a hand on Derek’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “I’m glad you came by, Derek. Your mother and I were very close and after… I heard rumors that you and your sister had survived, but when I put out feelers, no one knew where you’d gone. Are you both here, then?”

“Laura is…she died a few years ago,” Derek tells her, smile fading.

Rian makes a small, sympathetic noise in the back of her throat and pats his shoulder.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Your mother told me a lot about her; I’m sure she grew up to be an incredible woman.”

Derek smiles at her, small and sad but still there. “She was. I found out a few years ago that Cora survived, too; she’s at college in New York right now and more like Laura than I think she realizes. Peter’s alive too, more or less. Last I heard he was still in Beacon Hills.”

Derek looks to Stiles for confirmation and the younger man nods.

Rian’s eyes spark with mischief at the new information. “Oh, is he now? Maybe I’ll have to give him a call. See if he’s still as fun as I remember.”

Stiles gags. “Ugh, Rian, _no._ Really? Peter?”

“He was quite the firecracker in his youth.”

Derek lets out a strangled noise and Stiles feels a hysterical bubble of laughter grow in his chest.

“But what about Professor Clio? Aren’t you two going strong? No need to involve Peter in any of this.”

Rian scoffs. “Polyamory is quite natural and a mainstay in many cultures, Stiles.”

“Oh my god,” he groans, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s it, time to go.”

He grabs Derek’s hand, pulling him towards the door. “Great chat Rian, see you in an hour, please feel free to never mention any of that again!”

Rian cackles at his discomfort, walking back to sit at her desk.

“Thank you for coming by Derek, you’ll have to come over for dinner soon and catch me up properly on your life. And try to keep an eye on this one for me, would you?” She asks with a familiar long-suffering sigh.

Derek nods and waves goodbye as Stiles drags him out of the office, pushing him through to the stairs and collapsing against the door as it closes behind them.

“Well, that could have gone worse, I think, traumatic mental images I never needed of your uncle aside,” he says, clapping Derek on the shoulder. “Let’s go get some nosh.”

*

Ten minutes later, they’re sat on a bench out on the Mall, Stiles enthusiastically chowing down on his usual from Saul’s.

“Are you sure there’s actual meat in this?” Derek asks, eyeballing his chilli-dog suspiciously.

“Who cares,” Stiles says, words garbled through his full mouth. “One does not question Saul’s, only enjoys it for what it is.”

Derek gives the dog an experimental sniff, pulling away with a moue of discontent.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, just eat it. Live a little, Sourwolf.”

Derek glares at him and takes a small bite, eyebrows narrowing to a ‘v’ as he chews. He swallows with a grimace and chases it with his water. “Yeah, that’s not meat.”

Stiles snorts and finishes off his own meal, licking ketchup off his fingers and patting his belly with a satisfied sound. “My stomach disagrees, buddy.”

He stretches his arms out above him and tilts his face against the sun. Eyes closed, Stiles misses the way Derek stiffens, narrowing in on the decorative hedges across the sidewalk with his nostrils flared.

“So what else do you want to do today, big guy? I’ve still got a half-hour, we could go check out the Infinity Mirrors installa –“

“Stiles,” Derek cuts him off, voice tight and low. “The front desk girl from the museum is in that bush over there. I think she’s staring at us.”

Stiles’ eyes snap open and he whips his head around, searching until he spots her unmistakable curls amidst the foliage. “Oh my god, _Jules_.”

The bush lets out a meep, and Stiles can see the leaves shake as she tries to crouch lower.

“We can see you, idiot. Just get out here, _oh my god_ ,” Stiles groans, rubbing his hand over his face. It wasn’t like he didn’t want Derek to meet Jules, he was just hoping for a couple days of peace before he sprung her… _everything_ on Derek.  

“I’m sorry about this dude, but it’s alright. She’s harmless, mostly.”

Derek looks unconvinced.

Stiles raises his voice, ignoring the looks from passerby as he addresses the bush.

“I swear to god, Jules, if you don’t come out of there in the next 10 seconds, I’ll tell Rian what _really_ happened to that Peruvian shaman skull.”

He rolls his eyes as Jules slowly raises out of the bush, brushing stray leaves off her skirt and fluffing her hair.

“You can’t prove anything,” she says with a sniff, striding towards them as if she didn’t just emerge from a topiary.

She stops in front of their bench and sticks her hand out at Derek.

“Jules Verne Akande, resident front desk girl and Stiles’ acting best friend. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Derek tries and fails to hide a smile as he shakes her hand. “Derek Hale.”

Jules nods. “The Art History Hottie, I’m aware.”

She makes an impatient gesture for the boys to make room, settling herself between them before turning back to Derek.

“So, what are your intentions towards Stiles?” Jules asks in a businesslike tone, ignoring Stiles’ pained groan behind her.

Derek coughs out a surprised laugh, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Do you do this for all your friends?”

“Only the special ones,” she says, reaching back to pat Stiles’ knee. “Now answer the question.”

Derek looks to Stiles for guidance, but sees he’s got his face buried firmly in his hands, shoulders wracking with either sobs or laughter – Derek honestly can’t tell.

“I guess…to get to know each other again?”

Jules raises an eyebrow, clearly unsatisfied. “In the biblical sense?”

“Oh my god, _Jules_ ,” Stiles moans.

“It’s a fair question, Stiles,” Jules says, narrowing her eyes at Derek, whose cheeks are turning an adorable shade of pink. “So?”

“I mean, that’s a little, I don’t know if he even –“ Derek sputters, and Stiles contemplates making his own retreat to the greenery.

Jules taps her finger impatiently on her knee, and Derek slumps, flustered and unsure. “Maybe just a date first?”

Stiles meeps and uncovers his face, looking incredulously at Derek. “Is that even on the cards?”

“Well, I kind of thought the diner might have…maybe I misunderstood. It um, it absolutely doesn’t have to be, if you don’t want it.” Derek tells him, blush darkening.

Stiles leans over Jules, eyes bright as he grins at Derek.

 “Oh no, buddy, no takesies-backsies. You totally want to date me!” He waggles his eyebrows lasciviously. “Want to get _alllll_ up on the Stiles,”

Jules groans in second-hand embarrassment.

“I’m gonna date the shit out of you, big guy,” Stiles promises, ignoring her.

Derek smiles at him, soft and a little amazed. “Yeah?”

Stiles grins back. “Yeah.”

“Looks like my work here is done,” Jules says with a smug smile, patting them both on the knee before standing up.

“Stiles, I expect you to keep me informed. Derek, please know I have nearly unrestricted access to the weapons and ammunitions collection and a working knowledge of the Gatling gun. Act accordingly.” 

With one last blinding smile, she strides back towards the museum, leaving a trail of slightly stunned men and women in her path – Derek and Stiles included.

It’s quiet for a moment, both men smiling softly at each other.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Derek asks, hesitantly. “I know I’m not always the easiest person to…be with.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t particularly like easy. We’re doing this,” Stiles says definitively, “So prepare to be _wooed_.”

*

Surprising exactly no one, Stiles throws himself into the task.

He starts with research – making lists covering Derek’s likes and dislikes and asking questions when he wants to know more. He reads up on the mating habits of wolves, taking meticulous notes even though Derek rolls his eyes when Stiles brings up knotting. He even calls Cora, grilling her about what she learned about Derek on their roadtrip and his room in the apartment, fishing for insights.

He suspects she indulges him more out of amusement than anything else, but is pleasantly surprised when she promises to do some digging for him.

“I don’t know how or why, but you’re good for him, Stilinski. He seems happier. Less lonely. Don’t fuck it up,” she tells him, the implied threat not even touching his wide smile or the buzz in his chest at her approval.

When they meet up for lunch (every other day, as per Jules’ schedule of shared visiting rights), Stiles learns more about Derek. Learns his favorite candy is Twizzlers, even though he hasn’t had it in years. Learns he still has Laura’s collection of mix CD’s tucked in the glove compartment of the Camaro. Learns that he hasn’t dated anyone in the years since he left Beacon Hills. Learns just how wrong Stiles was about him, in the beginning, and how much it means that Derek is trusting him with all of this, now.

And through all of it, Stiles is constantly surprised by Derek; not just by how much he’s already changed, but by how he’s constantly _trying_ to – consciously working to be more open, more communicative, more affectionate.

Stiles was caught off-guard the first time Derek brushed his hand down Stiles’ cheek and neck in greeting (he knows scent-marking when he sees it, _thank you_ Discovery Channel), but now revels in the way he sits close enough to press them together shoulder to thigh or rests his hand on the back of Stiles’ neck when they say goodbye, the touch sending a spark through his body, warming him from the inside out.

And god, it’s easy. Easy to smile when he sees Derek waiting for him on the museum steps, easy to tangle their feet together under the table at Rita’s diner. Easy to call him when he’s frustrated from hours in the library and just listen to his voice, letting it wash over him and sooth his frayed nerves. Easy to spend their weekends together, exploring DC and ticking off items on Stiles’ ‘essential first dates list’ ( _“A list, seriously?” “You’re damn right, now come on – we have a glassblowing class at 3.”)_.

They join forces for the weekly pub quiz at The Looking Glass, Stiles gnawing on the pencil while he thinks and Derek blushing as he reveals an extensive knowledge of Brat Pack movies. When the winter weather puts flurries in the air, Stiles persuades Derek to walk hand and hand down the C&O Canal path so he can revel in his first experience of snow.

He even finds a retro arcade bar and fully plans on sweeping Derek off his feet with his mad Pacman skills, only to swoon as Derek crushes the Atari high score on his first go. They have a standing date at Rita’s every Friday, Saul has started stocking the Hebrew National franks Derek likes, and Stiles can hardly believe this is his life.

Scott and his dad have noticed the change – commenting on how he seems happier and healthier, but busier, too. How he never seems to have time for more than a quick chat, anymore. Stiles has told them about the internship, about Rian and Jules and his ongoing magic lessons, but something has been keeping him from saying anything about Derek.

Part of it is just trying to respect Derek’s wishes; although he hasn’t explicitly said anything, Stiles knows he’s not ready to jump back into life in Beacon Hills. And he understands that, he does – that place holds nothing but pain for Derek, right now, and Stiles isn’t about to jeopardize the life and the happiness he’s found here by pushing him too far, too soon.

But a part of it is also Stiles’ own desire for space, and intimacy. Time to let this _thing_ between them grow, evolve without any outside pressure. What he and Derek have feels right, incredibly so, but also fragile and new and terribly personal. Stiles is the happiest he’s been in a long time, and knows Derek is too, but he doesn’t think that’d be enough for Scott or his dad. To them, and everyone else in the pack, Derek’s still the same angry, pain-riddled person he was when he left. They haven’t gotten the chance to see how he’s grown and changed like Stiles has; learn all the little interesting things that make him up, separate from the loss and the pain and the guilt that obscured who he was for so long.

Stiles will tell them at some point, when they’re both ready; when he and Derek have fully explored their new dynamic, when Derek’s ready to let a little bit of Beacon Hills back into his life, and when they’re both comfortable enough in their relationship that nothing anyone else says will be able to shake it. But for now, Stiles brushes them off with a vague “college is crazy,” and just lets himself enjoy what he and Derek have, reveling in having someone as amazing and sweet and surprising and _wonderful_ as Derek in his life and falling asleep each night with a smile on his face and a warmth burning in his chest.

*

When they’re together, they talk about everything and anything. Stiles asks questions about Derek’s work and his art, demands updates on Jack the rabbit, wheedles him for stories about Cora and his childhood. It was difficult at first, getting Derek to talk about his family, but the more he does the more he seems to want to. And Derek asks about Stiles’ family, too. Wants to know how his dad’s doing, laughs at elementary school stories about him and Scott, listens as Stiles talks about his mom, about memories from the cabin and the time he spent there this summer, threading their fingers together when he scents the bittersweet love and sadness running along Stiles’ skin.

In return, Derek tells Stiles about Spice Girls sing alongs in the car with Cora, about running through Yosemite fully shifted on the full moon, how Laura struggled with the full-shift, too, at first, growing a snout whenever she got angry for months.

He tells Stiles about Sunday family breakfasts, how Laura and Derek tried for years to figure out how to make the French toast they remembered, stumbling through a hundred hit-and-miss recipes.

Stiles never met a mystery he didn’t like, so quietly, without telling Derek, he goes about solving this one, too. It’s painfully simple, in the end; all he has to do is call Peter. Granted, that ranks somewhere between ‘thinking about his dad’s sex life’ and ‘telling Scotty his childhood goldfish didn’t actually run away’ on the list of things Stiles never wants to do, but now that he’s seen the soft, happy smile Derek gets whenever he’s pleasantly surprised or recalls a happy memory, Stiles is like a junkie begging for his next fix.

 So he tucks away his dignity and calls him – twice, actually, since the first time he hangs up after Stiles opens with “What’s up, Zomb-eter?”

The second time around, things go a little better. He only has to endure a marginal amount of mockery, some light blackmail (Rian’s phone number), and the promise of a future favor to get the information he needs.

He spends two weeks practicing, bringing samples in to get feedback from Rian and Jules and brushing off Derek whenever he asks why Stiles smells like sugar and eggs. When he finally gets it right, he colludes with Rita to let him borrow her kitchen after closing on a Friday night.  He asks Derek to meet him there, promising a surprise, and Derek agrees, albeit hesitantly.

Rita brings Derek his usual milkshake and sits with him, catching up and distracting him from listening in while Stiles bangs around the kitchen. When he gives her the signal, she quietly melts away to the back and Stiles emerges with a plate held aloft, juggling maple syrup and a pot of homemade vanilla whipped cream. He sets the plate down in front of Derek with a flourish, plopping a generous scoop of cream on top and drizzling the stack with syrup before stepping back.

“Ta da!” Stiles announces with appropriately enthusiastic jazz hands. “Brinner is served.”

Derek looks between Stiles and the plate in front of him, a little lost. “You made me…French toast?”

“Yup, now eat!” He says, shoving a fork in Derek’s hands and looking on expectantly.

Derek shrugs, cutting off a bite and popping it in his mouth. At the first taste, his eyes grow wide. He swallows and looks at Stiles in shock. “Stiles, this is - how did you – I don’t understand.”

“I just, I remembered how you talked about them, how you kept trying but could never figure it out and…I wanted to help. I called Peter a couple weeks ago to find out,” Stiles explains, cheeks tinged with the barest hint of pink.

“He said the secret was to add cardamom and almond extract, and to only use freshly made whipped cream. I don’t know if it tastes exactly right but I tried –“

Derek rises from his seat and cuts Stiles off with a kiss.

He kisses him deeply, thoroughly, mouth sweet with sugar where he presses into Stiles. It’s their first, and Stiles feels it in every inch of him, heat racing through his body and sparking along his skin until every nerve is alight.  

“It’s perfect,” Derek says when he pulls away, caressing Stiles’ cheekbone with a thumb, eyes liquid with warmth and affection. “Thank you.”

Stiles grins and reaches up to swipe a finger across the tip of Derek’s nose. “Whipped cream,” he says, lapping it up and laughing at Derek’s slightly dazed look. He ducks back in and kisses it away before pushing Derek back into the seat by his shoulders.

“Seriously, eat. I didn’t spend two weeks perfecting that recipe for it to go cold,” he says with a smile, plopping into the opposite seat and snagging Derek’s forgotten milkshake.

Derek obediently tucks in, a goofy smile on his face that Stiles has never seen – but one he immediately files away as a precious thing within his memory.

Not a lot changes after that night, except now he gets kisses with his hellos and goodbyes and at various times in between.

If Stiles thought Derek was tactile before, he’s downright cuddly now, and Stiles gets intimately familiar with the many weird and wonderful ways to sooth beard burn (not that he’s complaining – Derek’s stubble has grown out to a lovely thick scruff Stiles wants to bite, more often than not, and he’d sooner die than tell him to shave).

He chalks it up as a win for the ‘food being the way to a man’s heart’ argument, and is only further convinced when Derek ends up returning the favor a couple weeks later.

He’d like to say it was some sweeping, romantic pre-meditated thing, but really it’s because Derek nearly chokes when he finds out Stiles has been subsisting primarily on junk food and Saul’s chili dogs for the past few months.

“Doesn’t your school offer some kind of fancy meal plan or something?” Derek asks, side-eying the trash can overflowing with pop-tart wrappers in Stiles’ dorm room.

Stiles shrugs from where he’s sprawled in his desk chair. “My scholarship only covers tuition, and dining hall food is expensive. My dad wanted to pay for the full plan, but I talked him out of it – he already spent enough getting me out here and I know he’s burned through his savings after 3 years of bad-guy induced medical bills.  I get by.”

Derek looks pained. “Stiles, you know – it’s alright to let people take care of you sometimes.”

Stiles snorts. “Pot, kettle buddy.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and waits, arms crossed.

 “So what, are you offering?” Stiles asks, rolling his eyes.

“To what?”

“To take care of me, obviously.” He spreads out his arms out and shuts his eyes. “I am ready to coddled.”

Derek narrows his eyes and strides forward, picking Stiles up and tossing him over his shoulder.

Stiles’ eyes fly open as he squawks, kicking his feet up. “Put me down, you heathen!”

Derek tuts. “I thought you said you wanted to be coddled. This is me, coddling you. I’m going to take you to my car, drive you back to my place, and make you a home-cooked meal. With actual nutrients, and maybe even a vegetable. Sound good?”

Stiles ponders that for a moment – there are worse things than a home-cooked meal, and he’d been dying to see where Derek lives. He stops squirming and props an elbow up on Derek’s shoulder, supporting his head.

“Very well, minion. Ferry me to your car and make me food.” He sniffs imperiously.

Derek snorts and loosens his grip on Stiles’ legs, jostling his elbow out of position and causing him to scramble to hold on.

“Alright, alright! Point made! Careful of the precious cargo, buddy. No dropping the Stiles.” He reaches out a hand to pat Derek on the (glorious, glorious) butt, emphasizing his point. Never let it be said that Stiles wasn’t an opportunist.

Derek dumps him in the passenger seat of the Camaro and Stiles croons, rubbing his hands over the leather dashboard.

“Shh beautiful, it’s alright, I’m here, you don’t have to deal with the mean man anymore.”

Derek reaches out and knocks his hands off. “Don’t get fingerprints on my dash.”  

Before Stiles can get too offended, Derek grabs his hand and laces it with his own, resting on the gearshift as they head down the road. He knows it’s just a small thing, but Stiles can’t help but think about his parents on those long drives to Washington, their fingers twined, his mom smiling as she kissed the back of his dad’s hand.

He shoots a furtive look over at Derek, completely focused on the road. Before he can talk himself out of it, Stiles lifts their hands, pressing his lips against the back of Derek’s hand briefly before setting them back down, heat rushing to his cheeks.

Derek doesn’t say anything, but strokes his thumb over Stiles’ fingers, the corner of his mouth curling up in a small, private smile as he drives towards home.

*

When Derek makes a quick pit stop at the grocery store, Stiles groans and smacks his head back against the seat.

“Of _course_ you shop at Whole Foods, you freak.”

Derek snorts. “Yeah, I forgot, you like your food with as many chemicals and pesticides as possible.”

Stiles looks at him in horror. “Oh my god, Derek, are you...are you a _food hipster_?”

Derek rolls his eyes at him.

“No, seriously, am I going to find a stash of kombucha at your house? Organic nut butter? Tell me, Derek, what are your thoughts on coconut oil?

“You’re such an idiot. The natural stuff just tastes better. Heightened senses, remember?”

Stiles cocks his head, considering.

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. Still a hipster though.”

“Says the guy wearing a beanie and plaid.” Derek points a finger at him as he gets out of the car. “Stay.”

“What, I can’t come in? C’mon, I’ll behave; I won’t even mock the gluten free pizzas, Scout’s honor!” Stiles whines.

“I want it to be a surprise. And I know for a _fact_ you were never a Boy Scout.” Derek scoffs as he closes the car door.

Stiles rolls down his window to call out to him, “Hey! You don’t know that! I was totally Boy Scout! I scouted the shit out of it!”

Well, Cub Scout, technically. For three whole days, in fact, before he was kicked out for practicing his knots by tying the other kids up, but Derek didn’t need to know that.

Derek, predictably, ignores him, but Stiles isn’t too mad. He’s already on to bigger and better things: namely, ogling Derek’s ass as he walks away. He sighs a little bit. _Hate to see him leave, love to watch him go._

*

When Derek gets back in the car, he hides his purchases from Stiles, pushing his face away with a hand when he tries to peek in bags in the back seat.

He drives them north through Van Ness and into a quiet, wooded neighborhood, following a long driveway to a small white Craftsman nestled up against Rock Creek Park and surrounded on all sides by hardwood forest. Stiles can see a stone chimney rising from the back of the house and long skylights cut into the pitched roof, capped by a gabled window. On the front porch, tapered columns sit in front of paned windows bordered by black shutters, the front door painted to match the red tin roof. All in all, it’s a million miles away from anything Stiles expected.

“So what did you expect?” Derek asks when Stiles tells him as much, getting out of the car to eyeball the place.

“I don’t know – an apartment maybe. Something industrial. Concrete floors for easy blood cleanup, barred windows, 50 Shades of Gray set up in the basement, etcetera etcetera.”

Derek scoffs from where he’s unloading groceries. “Right, because nothing says _putting down roots_ like a sex dungeon.”

“Fine, no sex dungeon. But you can’t tell me you don’t have a Batcave hiding somewhere in there.”

Derek snorts as he thwacks the car door shut with a hip. “Come inside, you can admire my weapons collection and shrine to my dead family.”

“You say like either of those would surprise me.”                                                              

Derek rolls his eyes and opens the door, dropping his keys in an abalone shell on the entryway table.

“Gift from Cora,” he explains as he toes off his shoes, lining them up next to a pair of fuzzy looking slippers Stiles would give anything to see him in. There are winter coats hanging on the coat hooks, framed pictures on the wall, and honest-to-god welcome mat, and Stiles is going to need someone to pinch him, stat.

“The kitchen and living room are down here, my room and the guest room are upstairs,” Derek says, nodding towards the stairs. “My studio’s in the attic.”

Derek leads him down the hall to the kitchen, and it’s a thing of beauty - all white subway tile and navy cabinets, exposed rafters, and countertops the same reclaimed wood as the floor. The fridge has photos of Derek and Cora stuck on with magnets, posing at the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls, squashed together fast asleep in a hammock, cheeks bulging in front of a food truck.  

Everything’s bathed in warm, rosy light from the fall of Edison bulbs suspended over the island and the built-in breakfast nook, and Stiles feels like he’s wandered into one of Boris’ _Country Living_ spreads.

“Ok, I gotta ask. If you did all this,” Stiles gestures vaguely, encompassing the house’s _everything._ “Why were you content to live in that shitty loft for so long? You didn’t have so much as a throw pillow, much less a _breakfast nook_.”

Derek raises an eyebrow as he unloads the bags. “As crazy as this sounds, I was more or less fighting for my life every day I stayed in Beacon Hills. Didn’t leave a lot of time for interior decorating.” He stops and looks around, surveying the room.

“Now, though…” He shrugs. “I can have nice things.”

 “Aw, so you’re saying Sourwolf was just a front to protect the soft, squishy artwolf that was there all along?” Stiles says, resisting the urge to coo.

“You’re an idiot.”

“You like me,” Stiles winks.

 _Jesus, but I do._ Derek thinks.

“So where’s this furry friend I’ve heard so much about?” Stiles asks, peering out the window of the breakfast nook.

“He’s in the hutch out back,” Derek says, nodding at a door opposite the hallway. “Go through the solarium and follow the path – it’s right next to the shed.”

“Solarium?” Stiles questions, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah, the old owners built it. It’s…kind of the reason I bought this place, actually. Come on, I’ll show you.” He leaves the bags on the counter and makes for the door, motioning for Stiles to follow.

On the other side is a room made almost completely of glass, curving away from the house in large black panes, green vines tracing the arch from the outside. Inside, there are plants dotted in pots and troughs around the room - pale roses shaking out their petals amid shocks of marigold yellow, vibrant wildflowers falling from baskets, succulents stretching smooth leaves across the dirt and broad-leafed plants shading a rope hammock piled with pillows.

Outside, a wide lawn slopes gently down to a creek, bordered on three sides by forest. There’s a tall willow sheltering a long, low bench by a firepit, and a stone path winding from the house to a small white shed and wooden hutch, next to what might be a garden, in warmer times. In the twilight, it looks like something out of a fairy tale – a happier sort than they’re used to.

“Jesus, Derek,” Stiles breathes out. “This is incredible.”

Derek smiles. “It gets better. This was Cora’s idea.” He flips a light switch next to the door, and the room illuminates with the glow of dozens of tiny white lights, silvered strings following the lines of the windowpanes.

“I um, I read out here a lot. Doesn’t feel so much like I’m in the city. And I can run in the forest on full moons – it’s large enough that I don’t run into people, often.” Derek taps his fingers against the edge of one of the troughs, staring out at the lawn.

“I’ve been thinking about growing a garden, maybe plant some berries. My dad had a huge garden when we were growing up. We’d steal blackberries and eat them by lake in the Preserve so he wouldn’t see us. But he always knew; could see the stains on our fingers, even if he couldn’t smell the sweetness on us from a mile away,” he says with smile.

“I think he must have gotten someone to magic the garden – there was always fresh watermelon in the summer, and in the fall we always had more squash and pumpkins than anyone else in town; so big I couldn’t wrap my arms around them, so much that my mom had to send out pies to everyone in the neighborhood just to make room in the kitchen.”

Stiles slips his hand into Derek’s, squeezing lightly.

“That sounds amazing,” he says with a soft, sincere smile. “It’s beautiful, Derek. This, the house, all of it - it’s perfect.”

Derek ducks his head, pleased at his approval.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to Jack.” He takes Stiles out a side door and down the path to the hutch, lifting a hook and propping the roof open.

Stiles peers over the edge, and promptly chokes on his own tongue.

 “Oh my god, _oh my god_ , Derek, where’s his face?!” He wheezes, clutching his stomach.

“That’s not a rabbit, that’s a MOP. You adopted a mop, Derek.”

Still shaking with laughter, he reaches out a hand to poke the pile of fur and it _moves_. Stiles’ arm snaps back and he cradles his hand against his chest, a bead of blood welling up on his finger.

“Derek, your mop bit me!”

Derek snorts, appallingly devoid of sympathy.

“I told you to watch out for his teeth. He’s an asshole. You two should get along great.” Derek scoops the hellbunny up and starts walking back to the kitchen, and Stiles can swear he looks smug as he’s carried away in Derek’s arms.

When they get back inside, Derek plops Jack on a plush white dog-bed at the foot of the island.At Stiles’ questioning look, he shrugs.

“He likes to be comfy. And some days I don’t feel like shifting back. It fits both of us.”

He turns back to the groceries, completely missing Stiles’ look of absolute shock as he tries to process _the most adorable thing he’s ever heard._

“What?” Stiles asks when he tunes back in, Derek staring at him with an expectant look.

“I said do you want a beer?”

Stiles shrugs as he slides onto one of the stools by the island.

“I mean, yeah, if you’re offering. You know still I’m underage, right?”

“I’m aware,” Derek says as he pulls two bottles out of the fridge, twisting off the caps with his bare hands.

“But I figure with the whole fighting for your life, possession by evil fox demon thing you’ve earned early privileges.”

“Showoff,” Stiles mutters as he takes the proffered bottle.

“Glad to know possession comes with perks though, cheers.” He clinks his bottle against Derek’s before knocking it back.

“Alright, I believe I was promised a home cooked meal. What’s on the menu, O captain, my captain?”

“Drunken burgers,” Derek says with a mischievous smile, pulling out a pack of ground beef from the last bag.

“Is that where you get me so drunk that I don’t notice how bad your cooking is?” Stiles asks, shooting Derek a skeptical look over the lip of his bottle.

 “No need – it’s one of mine and Laura’s old favorites. Came up with it after a night out celebrating Laur’s birthday,” Derek tells him. “She had a very specific set of cravings that turned out to be an act of mad genius. You’ll love it.”

“Do I get to know what’s in it?” Stiles asks, peering around Derek to see the ingredients piled next to the oven.

 “Not until after you try it – but I can tell you it’s organic, preservative free, and involves all 5 food groups.” Derek says, hip-checking him out of the way.

“That…does not sound promising.”

Derek scoffs and puts his hands on Stiles’ shoulders, forcibly turning him around and gently pushing him towards the hallway.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Now go relax in the living room and let me cook. I know you’re probably dying to snoop.”

Stiles darts back for a kiss on the cheek before walking backwards towards the door with a smirk. “You’re damn right I am.”

When Stiles wanders into the living room, he thinks he should probably resign himself to the fact that this is a dream. There’s no way Derek’s house can be this beautiful and _cozy._ The room has the same exposed rafters and white walls as the kitchen, but is dominated by a big red couch with cushions that look like they could swallow him up and stuffed bookshelves that stretch across the entire back wall.

Across the room, curtains the same red as the couch blanket tall windows, framing a stone fireplace Stiles is already daydreaming about curling up in front of. The most eye catching part of the room, however, is the massive canvas leaned against one wall and stretching nearly to the ceiling, showing cascades of blue and green melting together and shot through with gold, an avalanche of color that Stiles wants to get _lost_ in.

He plops down on the sofa and wraps himself in the thick knit blanket he finds there, allowing himself a moment to revel in what might be the comfiest couch in the coziest room of the most welcoming house he’d ever been in. And it belongs to _Derek_.  

 _That’s it_ , he thinks. _I’m sold._ Derek’s house is beautiful and warm and lived in and Stiles is never going to leave.

He fully plans on getting up in a minute to poke through Derek’s book collection, take a closer look at the rivers of color within the painting, but he can already feel his eyelids drooping, warm and drowsy and content. Resigning himself to his fate, Stiles stretches out and wiggles himself into a proper blanket burrito, digging his feet under the pillows and letting his eyes fall shut with a happy sigh.

*

Stiles comes to a little while later to gentle fingers carding through his hair, a quiet voice nudging him awake. When he opens his eyes, he sees Derek crouched next to the couch, staring at him with badly suppressed amusement.

“If this is your idea of snooping, I strongly advise against a career in private detection.”

Stiles yawns, stretching catlike across the couch and catching the way Derek’s eyes track the line of his body.

“I don’t know – I think I’m finding out all sorts of interesting things today.” Stiles says with a smile, looping his arms around Derek’s neck so he can pull him in for a kiss. He whines when Derek breaks away far too soon, laughing at Stiles’ pouting look.

“Come on, it’s time to eat. Later.”

Stiles perks up. “Promise?”

He rolls his eyes. “Promise.”

Derek stands up and grabs Stiles’ outstretched hand, pulling him to his feet and heading towards the kitchen.

On the table is quite possibly the biggest burger Stiles has ever seen, which is no mean feat - he’s been to a few BHPD cookouts in his time. He can’t even begin to identify all the layers stacked between the buns, and has a moment of sincere doubt that he’ll even be able to fit in his mouth, that he might – _quelle horreur_ – have to use a knife and fork; a cardinal sin of burger eating if there ever was one. But Derek slides in across from him with a knowing glint in his eye, and, well, Stiles has never been any good at walking away from a challenge.

After that first bite, forgoing dignity to stretch his mouth obscenely wide around the bun, Stiles’ eyes go wide.

He doesn’t have a name for combination of flavors that explode on his tongue, but he might liken it to a choir of angels, if he was going to be romantic. And there’s no doubt in his mind that this burger is worth a sonnet or two, at the very least. It’s savory and tart and sweet and salty all at once, and Stiles wants it in his mouth _all the time._

The rest of the meal passes in near silence, Stiles plowing through his burger with an uncommon mix of determination and glee and Derek looking on in barely suppressed amusement as he finishes his own.

When his plate is entirely wiped clean, Stiles slumps back in his chair and lets out a contented sigh.

“Alright big guy, color me impressed. Laura was definitely a woman after my own heart.”

He pats his overfull stomach and briefly calculates the hit his dignity might take if he unbuttoned his jeans.

“Don’t get a big head about this, but might have the best burger I’ve ever eaten. Definitely top 5.”

He leans forward with interest, eyes glinting at Derek’s smug look. “Now gimmie a peek at the man behind the curtain.”

Derek smiles serenely.

“Two patties – one ground beef, one black bean, layered with peanut butter, green apple slices, lettuce, barbeque sauce, and cheddar, with a scoop of baked beans and just a little ketchup on top.”

Stiles rears back, forehead crinkling with disgust.

“That…sounds horrifying.”

“Yet delicious.”

“Very delicious,” Stiles concedes, raising his nearly empty bottle.

“To Laura and her crazy, brilliant ways.”

Derek lifts his own drink with a soft, fond smile.

“To Laura.”

*

They clean up together, after, flicking water and bubbles at each other until the floor is soaking wet and Derek banishes Stiles to the solarium so he can finish in peace.

When he wanders back with a pair of newly opened bottles, he sees Stiles has already made himself at home in the hammock, stealing the knit blanket from the couch and cocooning himself amongst the pillows and the plants.

Derek swallows a giddy laugh that bubbles up at the sight, amazed that he gets to have this. Gets to have Stiles, relaxed and comfortable in his home like it’s his own; like there’s no question that he belongs there.

Stiles lifts the corner of the blanket, looking up at him with soft eyes, and Derek doesn’t hesitate to settle in next to him. He hands Stiles one of the bottles and wraps his free arm around his shoulders, sighing contentedly when Stiles leans into the touch, burrowing closer until they’re pressed together shoulder to hip, one leg thrown over Derek’s.

They sit there in companionable silence, nursing their drinks and watching the play of the fairy lights against the window and the snow beyond, listening to the brush of wind through the trees. If Stiles closes his eyes, he can almost imagine he’s back in the forests of the Preserve or up in the mountains, all green leaves and fresh dirt smell.

He feels whole, he thinks. Completely and truly whole; mind clear and quiet and at rest the way it had only ever been at the cabin. Just being around Derek settles him, he’s noticed. Anchors his mind and calms the rush of energy through his veins. Even if he didn’t, Stiles doesn’t think he’d have to pretend. Derek knows his history, and Stiles knows his, too. Knows he can trust Derek to not to judge him; only to help him, if he can. Knows he would do the same for Derek in a heartbeat. After all, that’s what they’ve always done.

In the half-dark, contented and tipsy from the beer and Derek’s warmth beside him, he feels like they’re alone in the universe, just the two of them adrift in this room. Sheltered from every bad thing that’s tried to break them and hidden from anything that ever could. Safe, at last.

“I want to take care of you, too, if you’ll let me.” Stiles whispers, tracing the curve of Derek’s knuckles with a finger.

 “I want so much for you, Derek,” he continues, something building within his chest he thinks will drown him if he doesn’t let it out.

“I want you to fall asleep without a thought in your head, without a single second of worry that something might happen in the night. I want you to wake up smiling, want to bring you breakfast in bed even though you know I can’t cook, and I bet you’re the kind of person who complains about crumbs in the sheets.”

Stiles slips their fingers together, squeezing gently.

“I want you to feel adored, to never doubt for a single moment how much you matter, how much you’re worth. I want to tell you every day just how brave I think you are, how brilliant, how kind, how deep and utterly _good_ you are right down to your soul. I just want to be around you all the time, be by your side every day of my life, if you’ll let me. And after…”

He looks up at Derek, eyes wide and a little scared and terrifyingly earnest.

“I want to be by your side then too, walking hand and hand into heaven or hell or wherever it is people like us go when all is said and done. And maybe it’s too much, too fast, too soon, but I can’t help it. It’s you, Derek. Everything about you, from the moment I first saw you. I never stood a chance.”

He feels more than hears Derek’s intake of breath, the whisper of his name before Derek pushes forward, cradling Stiles’ jaw as he licks into him, trying to say everything he can’t put into words. When he pulls away, his eyes are wide and dark, staring at Stiles with an intensity that causes the heat to rush to his cheeks.  Derek’s hand trails slowly from his cheek down to his neck, a light pressure that instantly makes Stiles aware of the rush of blood within his veins, the heartbeat pulsing against Derek’s thumb.

When Derek leans back in, he goes right for that spot on Stiles’ neck, sucking with delicious heat and the barest touch of fangs, immediately soothed by the swipe of a tongue that Stiles can’t help but lean into. When Derek’s satisfied with the mark he’s made, he moves back up to Stiles’ mouth, kissing him with intent, a statement and a prelude and a promise all at once.

Stiles pulls back long enough to whisper _bed_ against his lips, and then Derek’s standing and pulling Stiles by the hand. They barely stop long enough to get to the bedroom, knocking into walls and stumbling over chairs, clumsy in their eagerness. When they finally make it, Derek doesn’t waste a second before pushing Stiles up against the door and sliding his hands under his shirt, the touch sending shudders through his body.

Derek pulls off Stiles’ shirt and reattaches himself to his mouth, reaching down to paw blindly at the button of his jeans, a whine building in the back of his throat when it doesn’t come loose. Stiles laughs against Derek’s mouth and covers his hand with his own, stilling it.

“It’s alright, it’s alright, I’ve got it.”

Stiles shimmies out of his jeans and reaches over to undo Derek’s, slipping to his knees as he pulls them down so he can nose at that dark happy trail, trace the crease of Derek’s hip with his tongue. Stiles turns his face, resting against one of Derek’s muscled thighs and just breathes, excited and overwhelmed and feeling everything too much, too intensely.

Derek pulls him back up, anchoring him with strong hands and a reassuring touch against his cheek. He leads him to the bed, shedding his shirt along the way. He gently pushes Stiles down and props himself up over him, pressing their mouths together. Stiles runs his hands along Derek’s forearms and arches up, aching for a touch. Derek murmurs soothing words as he pets down his side, curving a hand around his hip and slipping his fingers past the waistband of his briefs.

“Off, off, off,” Stiles gasps against Derek’s mouth, sighing in relief when he obeys and they’re both finally, gloriously naked.  

Derek’s hand is warm where it cups him, fingers burning against his skin and forming a tight circle for Stiles to fuck into.

Stiles whines against Derek’s throat, sucking violet marks he knows won’t last. He rolls them over, straddling Derek’s hips and pressing against him, taking them both in hand and jacking quickly. He wishes he could do it slower, lick and tease and edge until they’re both shaking with it. But they both know it’s been too long coming for it to be anything but desperate and messy and fierce, from the bruising press of Derek’s fingers on Stiles’ hips to the rough slide of them together, just this side of too dry but too good to stop.

It’s over quickly, as it was always going to be, Derek shooting onto his own chest and Stiles quickly following with a low, long groan. When he goes to wipe his hand on the sheets, Derek catches him by the wrist, gaze steady as he brings Stiles’ fingers to his mouth and licks them clean with long, slow drags of his tongue, chasing their combined tastes. It’s easily the hottest thing Stiles has ever seen, and he can feel the blood stirring in his dick much sooner than should be humanly possible.

He flops back on the bed and closes his eyes, listening to Derek’s ragged breaths beside him and taking a second to revel in the heat pooled deep in his belly, the air heavy with electricity like the seconds before a storm.

After he’s caught his breath, Stiles rolls back over, propping himself up so he can see Derek, take in his swollen lips and the sweat dotting his brow, looking so thoroughly debauched that Stiles can’t help the swell of pride in his chest.

“One more time, with feeling?” he asks, eyes shining with lust and mischief in equal measure.

And, well, Derek never has been much good at denying Stiles anything.

*

When Stiles wakes up, he’s alone; the sheets empty but still warm beside him. He pulls on a pair of boxer briefs he finds on the floor and pads through the house, following the sound of voices and violins.

He finds Derek at the top of the stairs in an attic room, sun pouring in from the skylights along the sloped ceiling and falling across Derek’s back, turned away and intent on the tall canvas in front of him.

Stiles walks over and wraps his arms around Derek’s waist, nuzzling into the warm skin of his back.Derek hums his acknowledgement, leaning back against him.

“What are you listening to?” Stiles asks, pressing a kiss against Derek’s tattoo before propping his chin on his shoulder.

“It’s from _Lakmé_ – the Flower Duet. I used to work in a studio next to the vocal performance department at Steinhardt, could hear the classical voice students through the window whenever I painted. Just became habit, I guess,” Derek answers with a shrug.

 Stiles cocks his head, considering. “It’s beautiful.”

He leans closer, examining the wet spill of paint across the canvas.

“Do you always paint? Or can I expect some Patrick Swayze _Ghost_ role play in my future?” He asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Derek snorts.

“I played around with clay for a while and I like charcoals for sketching, but my preference has always been for oils. I like the layers and the textures – my sight is a little better than the average human’s, so I can see all the flecks and dips in the paint, the tiny changes in pressure from the brush and the rivulets where it dried just a little bit differently.”

He surveys the room, the finished and half-finished paintings stacked against the walls.

“I like art that doesn’t thrust itself at you, doesn’t scream for attention, but draws you in by simply presenting an image of what life could be and inviting you to take what you need from it. That’s all I want to do, I think. Create something that just gives you whatever you need, maybe something you didn’t even know you needed, without asking anything in return.”

Stiles squeezes a little tighter, rubbing his nose across the juncture between Derek’s shoulder and neck and pressing a kiss just below his ear. “I think you already have.”

“You sap,” Derek teases, tugging Stiles around so he can kiss him good morning properly.  “C’mere, I want to show you something.”

He leads Stiles over to one of the stacks of finished canvases, paging through until he finds the one he wants and pulls it out. It’s a little smaller than the one he’d been working on, maybe two feet by three, a riot of colors forming the image of a boy with broad shoulders. He’s facing the viewer, but his head is turned just to the side, as if distracted by something only he can see. It’s slightly blurred, the edges undefined as if the boy is vibrating with unseen motion, and it isn’t until Stiles focuses in on the familiar scatter of brown dots across the exposed cheek that he realizes that it’s a portrait of him, as Derek first knew him. All buzzed hair and soft lines, still carrying the rounded edge of baby fat he only truly lost in the last year and recreated in the thick swirls of paint. 

He reaches out a finger, tracing along the upturned slope of the nose, the dark fan of eyelashes before looking at Derek with a question in his eyes.

Derek smiles, a little nervous.

“This is one of the first paintings I did when I came to D.C. I hadn’t done anything in years, and I couldn’t figure out how to begin again – nothing felt quite right. So I just let go, like I had in the very beginning, and this is what I ended up with. I don’t think I even realized I was painting you until it was nearly finished.”

Derek looks down at the image in his hands, eyes soft with remembering.

 “I could picture you so clearly, more than anyone else, and it was like I needed to get it down, make it real. Proof of what happened, maybe. Of what you were to me, even if I didn’t understand it at the time. I didn’t say it last night…didn’t have the words, and I still don’t, really, but you need to understand; need to know that I feel the same.”

Derek looks up, voice steady and gaze unwavering. “It’s you. Always has been you, even when I didn’t know, even when I didn’t think for a million years it could be.”

He smiles crookedly. “Never been so glad to be proven wrong.”

Stiles gently takes the painting and leans it back against the wall before wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck and pulling him close, the kiss somehow saying _thank you_ and _it’s beautiful_ and _I understand_ and everything else Stiles has burning inside him.

When it ends, Stiles rests his forehead against Derek’s and lets their breathing fall in time, shivering when Derek trails paint-stained fingers across his skin.

“Maybe you’ll let me paint you again, sometime,” Derek whispers, breath ghosting over Stiles’ cheek.

“Anytime,” Stiles answers, angling up for one more soft kiss. He pulls away with a smile.

“Alright Jack Dawson, what does a guy have to do to get some breakfast around here?”

Derek snorts and pulls away, the moment past.

“You know that makes you Kate Winslet, right?”

“My ass is better,” Stiles says, winking at Derek before pulling him down the stairs.

“Come on, big guy, I feel there’s coffee in our future.”

*

There is coffee, fresh from the French press, and scrambled eggs and toast, lightly burned just like Stiles likes it.

Derek blushes when Stiles pulls down an unopened jar of Nutella from the cupboard and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“You mentioned liking it, one time. And it was on sale.” Not exactly true, but what Stiles didn’t know he couldn’t tease about. 

There’s flowers on the table from Derek’s garden and music filtering through from upstairs, Jack sleeping off his breakfast on the windowsill, belly up in the morning light. Derek’s hair is soft where it falls over his forehead, brushing the rim of his thick black glasses as he fills in the crossword of the Times. It’s quiet, and domestic, and Stiles loves every second of it.

God, he can barely reconcile this Derek with the one he first met; this man with the soft smile and paint under his nails who lets Stiles steal the funnies out of his newspaper and knows how he takes his coffee, and the angry twenty-something he used to be, all hard edges and unchecked anger yelling at Stiles to get off his lawn. That Derek was beautiful in the way only tragic things can be, but this Derek is breathtaking in the most literal sense, and Stiles can feel himself on the edge of a precipice every time he looks at him - not quite ready to jump, but tempted by the ecstasy of the fall.

And at this point, it’s no longer a question of if; only when. And when Derek reaches out to hook an ankle around Stiles’ without looking up from his paper, brow furrowed adorably in concentration, one thought comes to the front of Stiles’ mind. _Soon._

*

They’re late to work that morning, and many mornings after.

They go on dates. They go to the movies. They spend their lunch hours walking through the sculpture garden, and in the evenings Derek joins Stiles in the Land of Misfit Toys, staying long after everyone else has left and the archive is intimate and still. They stargaze a lot, curled together under piles of blankets in the solarium. Stiles points out constellations from a book Derek gives him after one of the stories about his mom, and Derek traces his own on Stiles’ skin, as familiar and dear to him as the stars.

As fall slips fully into winter, the isolation of Stiles’ first weeks are forgotten as his days are filled with school and work and magic and his nights are full of the rough tease of Derek’s beard and the feel of his sheets against Stiles’ skin.

His favorite spot at the coffee shop expands to fit one more, their ankles hooked together under the table as Stiles works on essays and Derek makes sketch after sketch, trying to capture the exact furrow between Stiles’ brows and the pattern of bite marks on the pencil he chews between his teeth. Some of them end up on the walls of Stiles’ dorm, as Stiles’ notes and books decorate Derek’s living room, their lives bleeding together so easily they barely notice.

Derek plants the herbs Stiles needs for Spark training in the solarium, and some days he’ll sit in the hammock and watch Derek work with dirt on his hands and sweat rolling down his back, tending the flowers with infinite care.

When he’s finished, Stiles pulls him inside to the shower, laughing between kisses as he rubs soap over Derek’s back, fingers ghosting over his tattoo and pressing gently into the muscles, kneading away the dirt and the tension until Derek is sighing contentedly into his mouth.

They go to bed like they do everything else – with affection, and ease, and an innate knowledge of what the other needs and how to give it to them.

Some days, this means Stiles opening Derek up slowly, tenderly, pressing kisses to the inside of his thighs and murmuring praises into his skin until his muscles tremble and he blinks away tears, ecstatic and suspended on edge for hours on end.

Other days, this means Stiles spread out over Derek’s lap, supported in the iron circle of his arms as Derek thrusts into him, pistoning his hips until he hits that spot within Stiles that makes his vision white out and the bonds hum in his chest, drowning out the sweet moans and whimpers that fall from his lips.  

When it’s over, Derek drags a washcloth gently over their stomachs while Stiles licks stray drops of come from his fingers, pressing the taste into Derek’s mouth while they’re tangled together. They fall asleep like that, sated and quiet and flooded with warmth, twin fires banked in their chests.

In the morning, Stiles loves to watch as the cracks in the blinds spill sunlight across Derek’s face, tracing the shadows that pool beneath his cheekbones and the space under his eyelashes and the soft part of his lips he can’t help but lean in to taste.

The best mornings are the ones where they can stay in. When neither of them has to work, and they can let the morning hours pass in sleep, in sex, in simply being close to one another, bathing in the exquisite feeling of absolute, perfect happiness – a feeling that neither of them thought they’d ever get to have again.

It’s on one of those mornings, quiet and still soft with dawn light, that Stiles asks Derek if he ever misses Beacon Hills.

“Apart from the Nemeton and all the bad stuff – do you ever just…miss it?” He asks, tracing circles on the arm Derek has curled around him.

Derek props himself up on an elbow so he can look down at him. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious, I guess,” Stiles shrugs.

“Thinking a lot about home, lately. What it means.”

Derek nods, understanding the way Stiles knew he would.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

“Beacon Hills hasn’t been home for me in a long time, not since before the fire. And definitely not after Laura…”

He pauses for a moment, considering.

“I guess I miss the Preserve, sometimes - how the land felt. My family lived there for generations, hundreds of years of Hales living and breathing and loving and dying in that same place. So much emotion and history that you could _feel_ it, a weight just as present and alive as the trees.”

He tightens his hold around Stiles’ waist, presses a kiss to his shoulder.

“But home… home was the apartment with Laura, for a long time. And then it was with Cora, wherever we were. But I think it might be here, now.  This house, the museum. You.”

Stiles feels a jolt of surprise ripple through him. “Me?” He asks, turning to look at Derek.

He nods, gaze steady. “I liked it here, before. It was safe, and comfortable. But lately it’s felt like _more._ Like it’s where I’m supposed to be. And I think it’s because of you. Like wherever you are is where I’m meant to be, too. That’s what home is, isn’t it? The place you’re meant to be.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know if he _can_ say anything after that, so he presses Derek into the bed and tells him everything that confession made him feel, how he feels the same, how Derek has become his home, too - all without saying a word.

Stiles thinks Derek hears him, nonetheless.

*

As much as time as they spend together, Derek makes sure that Stiles' studies never suffer. He said it’s because he knows John would pump him full of wolfsbane if he thought for a second that Derek was jeopardizing Stiles' scholarship, but Stiles has a hunch that it’s something more; thinks maybe Derek is trying to make sure that Stiles doesn’t miss out on a single second of college experience. He knows Derek still has a lot of guilt about how much the introduction of werewolves into Stiles' life changed things for him and he suspects that, on some level, Derek’s trying to prove to himself that he could still be good for Stiles; that he doesn’t have to mess this up, too.

So Stiles gets used to Derek knowing his schedule better than he does, reminding him about exams, quizzing him on folklore, and acting as an intelligent and thoughtful sounding board for essay ideas. And in return, Stiles tries to show Derek how much he values him in his life, how much it means to him that they can have this, that Derek is _letting_ him have this – welcoming him into his life and his home and his bed, letting Stiles touch the most vulnerable parts of him and baring his throat without fear.

It’s that trust that makes Stiles want to tell Derek all of his secrets, every dark thought he can’t share with Scott or his dad.

He tells Derek about his nightmares, how the memories from the nogitsune still haunt his dreams. How he spent months waking up in a pool of sweat, checking his hands for blood.

Derek tells him about how he can still sometimes hear Kate’s voice like she’s whispering in his ear, goosebumps crawling up his arms and making him want to bathe in scalding water, burn the memory of her from his skin.

But now when Stiles wakes up, there’s a warm body in his bed and a familiar heartbeat he can press his ear against until he falls asleep. And when Derek hears her voice, Stiles is there to drown it out with a thousand better thoughts or slide behind him under the burning water, pressing him against the tile and kissing him until his mind goes quiet, strong fingers washing him clean with infinite care.

Derek is the first person Stiles tells about the bonds. Stiles isn't sure why, after all this time, he feels ready; he only knows that he does. Maybe it's because the electricity that bloomed in his chest the moment he saw Derek settled, but hadn't gone away. Just slotted into place alongside the other threads like it belonged there, like it always had a spot just waiting to be filled.

Maybe it’s because he knows Derek understands loss, and the fear of it. Because Derek knows what it means to be manipulated, knows how it feels to not trust your own mind. Knows better than to lie to Stiles, if they aren’t real. Knows better than to try and protect him by withholding the truth.

Maybe it’s because Derek has become his safe place, snuck under his defenses so thoroughly that simply being near him makes Stiles feel more settled, more secure. Truth be told, he never had much in the way of defenses against Derek; even in Beacon Hills Derek felt like safety, and with the life they led, that's a feeling one tends to hold on to.

In the end, maybe it’s just because he’s tired of keeping it a secret. Tired of biting his tongue when the heat burns a touch brighter when he sees Derek waiting for him outside of work, or when he spots the line that appears between Derek's eyebrows when he's particularly focused on painting. Stiles adores that line, loves to tease Derek about the wrinkles he'll develop, loves even more to smooth it away with a thumb, trailing his fingers over the arch of his brow and down the curve of his jaw.

And it's that line, appearing one Sunday morning in the attic while Derek works, that pushes Stiles over the edge.

"Do you feel them?" He blurts out from his customary perch on the window seat, Jack sleeping peacefully beside him.

"The bonds?"

Derek looks up, brow still adorably furrowed with confusion. "What?"

Stiles flushes, hunching over to curl his arms around his knees.

 "The um, the pack bonds. In your chest? Just here,” he explains, rubbing at the familiar spot beneath his breastbone.

"I started feeling them after we dealt with the Nemeton. It was like I came out of the water with all my senses dialed up to 11. Deaton told me I would have darkness around my heart, and I could feel it – could tell where it pooled around my lungs and snaked up my spine.” Stiles shivers at the memory.

 “But I could also feel my spark, a current traveling within my veins. And something else in my chest, a warmth that I knew, on some level, was because of the pack. I don't know how to describe it...it almost feels like threads, you know? A direct line towards the rest of the pack, resting just below my heart and glowing brighter when they're happy and healthy, aching when they’re not.”

He pauses, arms curling tighter around his knees, afraid to look at Derek.

 “When I saw you again, it was like nothing I had ever felt before. It went beyond warmth – like a fire, tearing through me. Like something was waking up, like it was waiting, and since then… I think I can feel you too. I can't really pick out the others out but yours - I know yours. There's something different about it. Not bad different, just...different.”

He furrows his brow, trying to find a way to explain.

“It’s like you're vibrating on a different frequency, almost. I can feel it more, feel it react to you, feel ME react to you on a visceral level. And, god, I haven't told anyone about this before. Not even Scott.”

He huffs out a desperate laugh.

“I’ve been so afraid to find out it’s not real, this thing, this feeling that I've had for YEARS now. Wondered if it wouldn't be better to have it and not know, then to find out for sure and lose it. But Derek, I need to know. If it's you, if this really is something, or if this is all in my head."

Stiles finally looks at him, jaw set and determined even as Derek can see the fear in his eyes.

"I need to be able to trust this. I'm ready to know, good or bad. Don’t lie to me if you think it will spare my feelings, please just... I need the truth. Can you promise me that?"

"Stiles," Derek breathes out, voice breaking on the word.

He puts down the brush and crouches beside Stiles, cradling his face in his paint-marked hands. He rubs his thumbs over the curve of Stiles' cheekbone and traces down the familiar trail of moles, careful and heartbreakingly gentle.

"I will never lie to you. Never. I promise you that now, and for every moment after this. Not to protect you, not because I think you're not ready, not even if I think I can spare you pain. I trust you with every single thing I've got, so much that it scares me, so much that, if you wanted, I know you could destroy me, more than Kate ever did, more than Jennifer ever could. You could ask anything of me, Stiles, and I would give it to you. So please, trust me now."

His hands still, the faint pressure grounding Stiles as Derek looks directly into his eyes.

 "It's real, Stiles. They're real. I hadn't felt them in a long, long time. Not since Laura...That was a type of coldness I had never felt, never want to feel again. But when I found Cora, it was like something inside of me flared back to life. And when I saw you in the gardens...god, Stiles, nothing can even compare. It was like I knew you before you were there, like I had found you without even knowing you were lost."

Stiles’ hands come up to curl around Derek’s wrists, eyes wide and pleading.

"Derek don't...don't say that if you don't mean it. I couldn’t take it if you -"

"I mean it Stiles, God, I mean it. I wouldn't lie to you about this, not about anything. Please, please, trust me. Trust this."

Derek turns his hands so he can grab Stiles’, pulling one to his chest and resting the other over Stiles’ own heart, pressing gently.

Stiles feels the warmth bloom in his chest, and he closes his eyes, letting the spark flow through him, chasing the line of his fingers until he can feel Derek -  feel the beat of his heart, perfectly even and tapping out a rhythm that mirrors the one Stiles feels in his chest. Feel the thrum of the bonds, filling his ears, humming in tune with his own.

When he opens his eyes, Derek’s staring at him with a look he couldn’t describe if he had a thousand lifetimes to try. Like he’s his last hope of heaven, like the only thing that matters in the world is Stiles trusting him, now. Like he’d cut out his own heart, if it meant that he would believe him.

But Stiles already has his heart, knows it intimately – the sound of it under his ear as he falls asleep, the rush of blood when he rests his teeth against Derek’s neck. Knows that it’s sure, and strong, and has guided him through sleepless nights plagued by nightmares, grounded him when he couldn’t tell shadows from smoke.

Knows that he can trust it. Trust Derek.

With this, and with everything.

And so, with a smile curling on his face and heat blooming in his chest, Stiles believes him.

*

After that, there are no boundaries between them.

No secrets, no half-truths, only complete and naked trust and the ability to be totally, unselfconsciously themselves.

It’s liberating, it’s intoxicating. It’s not always good, not always pretty, but god, it’s the best thing either of them have ever felt.

When the winter storms come, Stiles grabs Derek’s hand and pulls him from the attic, leads him down to the solarium where they stand and watch the drops hit the glass, blurring the world around them in a symphony of rain and thunder.

Sometimes it’s not enough, for Stiles. He needs to be outside, face turned to the sky as he lets the water wash over him, rolling down his arms and dripping off his fingers. Needs to let the cold and the wet and the noise drive the thoughts from his head, calm his twitching nerves. Needs to be washed clean in the most primal of ways.

Derek worries about his boy, standing there unafraid in front of God. After all, like attracts like and Stiles is nothing if not six kinds of storm, ozone and electricity running like blood in his veins. So he stands with him, lets the rain soak his clothes and wet his eyelashes, holding Stiles’ hand so that if the lightning hits, it won’t hit alone.

When the gooseflesh raises on Stiles’ arms and his body shivers with cold, Derek pulls him close, sweeps his thumbs under his eyes to catch the tears that muddy the rain. Ghosts his lips over Stiles’ closed eyelids and runs his nose along the sharp edge of his cheekbone as his fingers trail down Stiles’ neck, his shoulders, falling gently until he can twine their fingers together.

They stand there in the rain, hands clasped and foreheads pressed together until the tears and the tremors stop. Until Stiles’ heartbeat slows to match Derek’s own, until he opens his eyes and Derek can see clear into his soul, all honey-colored heart and amber will.

Those days, they kiss like they’re dying, like they’re drowning; like the world will be washed away in floods and their only hope for salvation is in each other. Derek undresses Stiles like a holy thing, anchors him with his body; Stiles licks prayers into his skin and breathes salt air into his lungs. They maroon themselves in the sheets and ride their pleasure like waves and being together is at once a baptism and a burial at sea.  

If Stiles’ bad days are storms, Derek’s are earthquakes, the pieces that hold him together shifting like tectonic plates, fracturing to his core. Every bone creaks with tension and his muscles spasm, body wracking with violent tremors. Even as his mouth is parted in pain, he never makes a sound – but Stiles hears him anyway. Grabs his shaking hands and presses them to his chest, guides him to the ground where he can cradle Derek’s head in the hollow of his throat. Holds him together with the bonds of his arms as the aftershocks rip through his body, leveling him like so many cities.

He comes back in pieces, each time reformed anew. Stiles gathers him in his arms and takes him to bed, covers their heads with the blanket so Derek can relearn himself in the safety of the dark. He wraps his arms around Derek’s waist and gently presses his fingers into his skin one at a time, over and over, grounding him lest he fall into the cracks.  

Entirely exposed, they find they fit into each other in a way that no one else has even come close. Stiles touches Derek with ineffable care, like he’s a precious thing, a dawn thing, to be guarded for fear that if it breaks, his heart would break with it.

Stiles touches him like he's afraid to bruise him, afraid to cause him even a split-second of pain. Like Derek is his to protect, and he'd stake his life in making sure nothing could ever harm him again.

It's never felt like that, for Derek. Never been with a lover who wanted to protect him. Who thought he needed protecting. Who looked for even a second past the muscles and the wolf and saw someone who had been so thoroughly broken, it’s a wonder that he even still exists at all.

And Derek gives him what he needs, too. Where Derek wants to be claimed, wholly and completely for the first time in his life, Stiles needs to be worshipped. He scoffs when Derek tells him as much, but lets his mouth fall open when Derek presses his fingers against his hips, rubs his stubble across his skin and leaves behind blooming hickeys like devotions.

He shows him how much he wants him, how much he needs him, how his miles of pale skin and fragile bones don't make Derek think of weakness, but of tempered steel and poison dipped knives. Of sleeping vipers and the electric current of magic. And Derek wants him. Wants the danger, wants the pain, wants the uncertainty and the inexperience and every scar that has been carved into his skin since they met.

Wants to know the stories behind the scars he doesn't recognize. Wants to know the placement of his moles so well he can trace it in his sleep, paint it into every picture, until everything he does announces itself as 'for Stiles', as everything he did before declared itself, too.

They fall together like they were never made to be separate parts, and both of them wonder why it took so long to realize that.

*

Time passes. Life goes on.  

The bad days grow father in between, and the good become great. Stiles passes his exams, Derek paints more than he has since was a teenager, and to them, it feels as if the entire world is burning gold.

They spend Thanksgiving with Rian and Professor Clio, gorging themselves on Polish, Russian, and Greek specialties. Cora even comes down from New York for the holiday, getting along so well with both Rian and Jules that Stiles and Derek spare a moment of worry for the fate of the world.

If possible, Derek’s happiness grows even further during her stay. Stiles sparks with warmth as he watches them bicker and banter, Derek ruffling Cora’s hair as she slumps over her morning coffee, Cora pulling her brother onto the dance floor of the salsa club she demanded they go to, throwing her head back with laughter as Derek’s cheeks burn scarlet.

When a handsome man steps in and twirls her away, Stiles takes her place, grinning as he laces his fingers with Derek’s and rests his other hand on his bicep, reveling in the feeling of Derek’s palm spanning the small of his back.

Neither of them really know what they’re doing, but it doesn’t matter; it’s enough simply to be together, to not overthink it, to let their hips curve together and move to the music. And Stiles, god, Stiles is _breathtaking_ when he lets go. When his brain stops running and running and he just _feels_ , all sinuous grace and sensual lines as he throws his head back, letting Derek bite along the smooth skin he offers, tasting salt and heat and _Stiles_. It’s a million miles away from the Stiles Derek usually sees, unapologetically sprawling and clumsy not from lack of grace, but from lack of care as his mind is busy thinking a hundred wondrous thoughts.

And there, holding him in his arms, Derek knows with an absolute and unshakeable certainty that he loves him. Loves his flailing and his grace, loves the race of thoughts in his head and the endless spill of words that are so often dismissed without recognition of their intelligence, their importance.

He loves him silent, too, the days he can’t bear to speak and hides his face in the hollow between Derek’s neck and shoulder; the days his fingers twitch with unsuppressed energy and the days he’s at rest, eyes closed and utterly content in Derek’s home, in Derek’s bed, in Derek’s arms.

 He loves him because of all this and more, loves him in a way he knows he could never put into language, might not even be able to put into paint, so as the band plays and the lights spin around them, he settles for three words, pressed against Stiles’ lips with all the love and passion and _feeling_ he has in him.

And, god, it’s like the sun filling the room, the burst of happiness and surprise and affection that explodes from Stiles’ scent, underscored by something deep and sweet and overwhelming he doesn’t have a name for.

He looks at him with those wide brown eyes, lips lightly parted, and it’s like every romance novel cliché Derek’s ever read. Like he contains the answers to every question Derek has asked and those he hasn’t, like every second of his life has been leading to this moment, this second, when the man he loves presses his hand to his chest like he can’t contain the feeling building inside him and kisses Derek back with everything he’s got.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to because Derek feels it too, that warmth that flickered into existence the second he saw Stiles in the garden and hasn’t stopped growing since, building white hot in his chest until it eclipses anything he’s ever felt, stronger than any pack bonds he’s ever made, and he doesn’t have a name for it.

Thinks he might understand, anyway.

Thinks Stiles might, too.

And that’s more than enough for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t say I didn’t warn you about the histrionic use of metaphor. New drinking game: do a shot every time Emma uses an unnecessary nautical analogy for sex! Hope you’re not attached to your liver.
> 
> I feel like I should mention that Jack the rabbit is a direct result of my love for Skoosiepants' incomparable fic [Something There Is](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8308063). My life is infinitely better for having the image of wolf Derek cuddling werebunny Stiles AND I THANK THEM FOR IT. 
> 
> I originally planned on 3 parts in this series, so keep an eye out for that sometime in the near/very, very far future.
> 
> Finally, I have occasionally been known to do a Tumble, so feel free to come cry about gay werewolves with me [here.](http://sylvesterelle.tumblr.com/)  
> Thanks for reading!


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